THE  GOLD-GATED  WEST 

SONGS  AND  POEMS 

BY  SAMUEL  L.SIMPSON 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


The   Gold-Gated  West 


This  volume  is  published  by  the  sister  and  sons 
of  the  author 


The 

Gold-Gated  West 

Songs   and    Poems 

By  Samuel   L.   Simpson 

Edited,   with  an  Introductory   Preface,  by 
W.    T.    B  U  RN  E  Y 


PHILADELPHIA  &  LONDON 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910 
BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


Published  June,  1910 


Printed  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 
The  Washington  Square  Press,  Philadelphia,  U.S.A. 


TO  JULIA 

O  she  was  fair  as  a  red-lipped  lily, 
A  rosy  marble  of  moulded  song. 


3-^37 
177 


Beauty  is  regnant  in  all  God's  looms. 
Even  the  thistle  has  purple  blooms. 


PREFACE 


SAMUEL  L.  SIMPSON,  the  author  of  this  collection 
of  poems,  was  born  in  the  State  of  Missouri  on  the 
10th  day  of  November,  1845,  and  was  the  second  son 
of  Hon.  Ben  Simpson  and  Nancy  Cooper  Simpson. 
In  1846  Ben  Simpson  organized  and  conducted  an 
emigrant  train  across  the  plains  to  Oregon.  The 
trials,  hardships  and  triumphs  of  that  great  under- 
taking are  most  interestingly  told  in  the  poem  en- 
titled "  The  Campfires  of  the  Pioneers." 

Sam  Simpson,  as  he  was  familiarly  known,  was 
taught  the  alphabet  by  his  mother  at  the  age  of  four 
years,  from  copies  traced  in  the  ashes  on  the  hearth- 
stone of  their  pioneer  home.  He  attended  the 
country  schools  of  the  time  and  was  reputed  preco- 
cious in  his  earlier  life.  He  has  left  one  gem,  a  remi- 
niscence of  his  school-days,  "  The  Lost  Path." 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  was  employed  in  the  sut- 
ler's store,  owned  by  his  father,  on  the  Grande 
Ronde  Indian  Reservation,  a  military  post  at  that 
time.  Here  the  precocious  boy  met  and  became  the 
flattered  protege  of  Grant,  Sheridan,  and  others  of 
that  post.  General  Sheridan  presented  him  a  copy 

7 


of  Byron's  poems,  which  he  prized  very  highly  and 
read  with  great  interest. 

He  entered,  at  sixteen,  the  Willamette  University, 
at  Salem,  Oregon,  from  which  he  was  graduated  in 
the  class  of  '65.  He  immediately  took  up  the  study 
of  the  law,  and  passed  the  required  examination  for 
admission  to  practice  in  1866,  but,  not  being  of  the 
required  age,  he  was  not  admitted  until  1867. 

His  prospects  in  the  practice  were  reasonably 
good,  though  his  characteristic  timidity  qualified  his 
deserved  success.  In  1870  he  abandoned  the  practice 
of  law,  assumed  the  editorial  charge  of  the  "Corvalis 
Gazette,"  and  entered  on  a  general  journalistic  ca- 
reer, which  he  pursued  through  the  rest  of  his  life. 

In  1868  he  married  Miss  Julia  Humphrey,  to 
whom  these  poems  are  dedicated.  She  was  noted 
for  her  beauty  and  enrapturing  voice  in  music — 
his  "sweet-throated  thrush,"  of  whom  he  writes : 

Lurlina,  Heaven  flies  not 
From  souls  it  once  has  blessed  ; 

First  love  may  fade,  but  dies  not, 
Though  wounded  and  distressed. 

"  Though  after-days  deride  us 

With  Hymen's  broken  rings, 
We  know  that  once  beside  us 
An  angel  furled  his  wings." 

And,  though  after-days  did  deride  him  with  Hymen's 
broken  rings,  he  never  faltered  or  wavered  in  his 
devotion  to  his  first  and  only  love.  There  were  born 

8 


to  Mr.  Simpson  and  wife  two  sons,  Eugene  H.  and 
Claude  L. 

Samuel  L.  Simpson  died  in  the  city  of  Portland 
on  the  14th  day  of  June,  1900,  and  was  buried  in 
Lonefir  Cemetery. 

Simpson  has  been  classed  by  his  Western  admirers 
with  Burns  and  Poe,  and  in  many  of  his  poems  he 
portrays  that  keen  appreciation  of  the  grandeur  and 
beauty  of  nature  and  that  matchless  rhythmic  style 
which  certainly  render  the  comparison  not  uncompli- 
mentary to  those  immortal  bards.  And  he  too,  as 
they,  labored  within  the  bonds  of  a  habit  that  has 
no  kindred  seal  of  woe,  and  to  this  limitation  was 
attributable  the  failures  he  so  bitterly  bemoans  in  the 
poems  "  Quo  Me,  Bacche?  ",  "  Wreck,"  and  others  of 
like  sentiment. 

The  Angel  of  Silence  has  now  brushed  him  with 
his  wings  and  the  pining  is  hushed.  Life's  stormy 
seas  have  baffled  and  shipwrecked  many  a  divine  ge- 
nius, who  bravely  faced  the  gale  with  little  thought 
of  anchor  or  the  safe  bestowal  of  his  sail;  to  whom 
the  flag  at  the  peak  was  more  important  than  a 
strong  hand  at  the  helm.  Such  a  sailor  was  Sam 
Simpson;  but  he  has  left  us  many  a  beautiful  strain 
of  music,  caught  from  the  song  of  wind  and  tide; 
many  a  picture  glowing  with  the  gold  of  sunset  or 
the  rose  of  blossoming  spring.  We,  who  knew  him 
best,  know  that  he  never  reached  the  achievement 

9 


that  was  possible  to  his  talents.  His  poems  breathe 
rather  of  pathos  and  shadow  than  of  joy,  for  they 
take  their  tint  from  a  mind  oftentimes  world  weary. 
And  we  who  knew  him  will  judge  him  gently,  and 
prize  the  treasures  he  brought  home  from  many  voy- 
ages of  fancy,  in  air  and  sea  and  sky. 

W,    T.    BURNEY. 


10 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE  ...............................................  7 

SALUTATION  ............................................  15 

POEMS  ON  NATURE 

BEAUTIFUL  WILLAMETTE  ................................  19 

SNOWDRIFT  .............................................  21 

AUTUMN  LEAVES  ........................................  22 

AFTEB  HARVEST  ........................................  25 

MOLOKAI  ...............................................  26 

AN  OUT-OF-DOOR  SONG  .................................  28 

HOOD  ..................................................  30 

THE  WINTER  FLOWER  ..................................  33 

SULLIED  WATERS  .......................................  34 

THE  SISTERS  ...........................................  39 

THE  LOST  PATH  .......................................  40 

OREGON  IN  SUMMER  ...........  .........................  42 

THE  FIRST  FALL  OF  THE  SNOW  ..........................  45 

THE  OREGON  CHINOOK  .................................  48 

THE  FEAST  OF  APPLE  BLOOM  ...........................  50 

FALLS  OF  THE  WILLAMETTE  .............................  52 

THE  MAPLE  AT  THE  GATE  ..............................  53 

OREGON  RAIN  ..........................................  56 

THE  KING  DISROBED  ...................................  60 

THE  MYSTIC  RIVER  .................................  •-.  .  .  62 

11 


CHRISTMAS  CHIMES 

THE  EVE  OP  CHRIST 67 

THE  CHRIST  STAR 69 

TO-NIGHT 72 

THE  MATCHLESS  STORY 74 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 79 

THE  DEATHLESS  LEGEND 81 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 82 

MlLLIARIUM  AUREUM 84 

HISTORICAL  AND  NARRATIVE  POEMS 

THE  CAMPFIRES  OF  THE  PIONEERS 91 

THE  WIZARD  OWL 108 

"  PORTLAND  " 118 

LAUNCHING  OF  THE  BATTLESHIP  OREGON 121 

MEMORIES  OF  THE  WEST 

RED  LACY 127 

THE  MOTHER'S  VIGIL 132 

SHASTA  JOHN 136 

THE  FATE  OF  MISSISSIP 140 

IN  THE  SISKIYOUS 145 

THE  SPOTTED  CAYUSE 147 

THE  BALLAD  OF  KANGAROO 150 

MEMALUSE  ISLAND 155 

AT  LINNTON'S  SHAMBLES 160 

A  LEGEND  OF  ARIZONA 164 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS 

HAEC  OLIM  MEMINISSE  JUVABIT  (PLANTING  OF  THE  PINE)  169 
POEM  READ  BEFORE  THE  ALUMNI  OF  WILLAMETTE  UNIVER- 
SITY, WEDNESDAY,  JUNE  25TH,  1873 178 

12 


ASHES  OF  ROSES 187 

SEQUOIA  SEMPERVIRENS 196 

THE  FEAST  OF  THE  FLOWER  MOON 199 

POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT 

AT  PARTING 207 

ONLY  A  FEATHER 209 

ADIEU 211 

FOREVER 213 

LURLINA 215 

SINCE  IT  MUST  BE  So 218 

A  MAIDEN'S  SONG 220 

POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

"LIGHTS  Our"  225 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SWORD 226 

THE  ROUNDED  AGE 228 

BATTLE  FLOWERS 237 

BATTLE  DAWN 238 

MISCELLANEOUS 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  WRIGHT 243 

Quo  ME,  BACCHE  ? 245 

THE  GORGE  OF  AVERNUS 248 

THE  OLD  NEWSPAPER 250 

NEPENTHE 253 

THEY  ARE  SINGING  THAT  SONG  TO-NIGHT 254 

Now   TRULY   WILL  IT  PAY  ? 256 

TURNED  DOWN 258 

DISILLUSION 260 

BY  THE  FIRESIDE 262 

13 


IN  MEMORIAM 

AN  OREGON  PIONEER 267 

THE  NYMPHS  OP  THE  CASCADES 269 

"  ALLIE  " 272 

SLAIN  BY  THE  SEA 273 

THE  CROWNING  OF  BURNS 276 

BURNS 279 

THE  DYING  MINER 282 

LIFE  AND  DEATH 

THE  LEGEND  OF  LIFE 287 

WRECK 296 

WHAT  DEATH  MAY  BE 304 

A  VIEW  OF  DEATH .  305 


14 


SALUTATION 

Where  the  lords  of  the  mountains  are  lifted 

In  a  lustre  of  silver  and  pearl, 
And  the  shadows  of  ages  are  drifted 

In  the  banners  the  forests  unfurl, — 
Where  the  Oregon's  gathering  waters 

Go  down  to  the  strife  of  the  sea, 
And  Willamette  meanders  and  loiters 

By  many  a  rose-clustered  lea, — 
In  the  regions  of  Hesper,  the  star-lands, 

Abloom  in  the  gold-gated  West, 
I  have  crowned  a  wild  muse  with  these  garlands 

Some  rue-leaves  along  with  the  rest; — 
If  perchance  in  the  chaplets  I  bring  her 

There  is  something  your  heart  will  prolong, 
Then  to  me  is  the  joy  of  the  singer, 

And  to  you  the  delight  of  the  song. 


15 


Poems  on  Nature 


BEAUTIFUL  WILLAMETTE 

From  the  Cascades'  frozen  gorges, 

Leaping  like  a  child  at  play, 
Winding,  widening  through  the  valley, 
Bright  Willamette  glides  away; 

Onward  ever, 

Lovely  River, 
Softly  calling  to  the  sea, 

Time,  that  scars  us, 

Maims  and  mars  us, 
Leaves  no  track  or  trench  on  thee. 

Spring's  green  witchery  is  weaving 

Braid  and  border  for  thy  side; 
Grace  forever  haunts  thy  journey, 
Beauty  dimples  on  thy  tide; 
Through  the  purple  gates  of  morning 

Now  thy  roseate  ripples  dance, 
Golden  then,  when  day,  departing, 
On  thy  waters  trails  his  lance. 
Waltzing,  flashing, 
Tinkling,  splashing, 
Limpid,  volatile,  and  free — 
Always  hurried 
To  be  buried 

In  the  bitter,  moon-mad  sea. 
19 


In  thy  crystal  deeps  inverted 

Swings  a  picture  of  the  sky, 
Like  those  wavering  hopes  of  Aidenn, 

Dimly  in  our  dreams  that  lie; 
Clouded  often,  drowned  in  turmoil, 

Faint  and  lovely,  far  away — 
Wreathing  sunshine  on  the  morrow, 
Breathing  fragrance  round  to-day. 
Love  would  wander 
Here  and  ponder* 
Hither  poetry  would  dream; 
Life's  old  questions, 
Sad  suggestions, 
Whence  and  whither?  throng  thy  stream. 

On  the  roaring  waste  of  ocean 

Shall  thy  scattered  waves  be  tossed, 
'Mid  the  surge's  rhythmic  thunder 

Shall  thy  silver  tongues  be  lost. 
O!  thy  glimmering  rush  of  gladness 

Mocks  this  turbid  life  of  mine ! 
Racing  to  the  wild  Forever 

Down  the  sloping  paths  of  Time. 
Onward  ever, 
Lovely  River, 
Softly  calling  to  the  sea; 
Time  that  scars  us, 
Maims  and  mars  us, 
Leaves  no  track  or  trench  on  thee. 


SNOWDRIFT 

Tenderly,  patiently  falling,  the  snow 
Whitens  the  gloaming,  and  in  the  street's  glow 
Spectrally  beautiful,  drifts  to  the  earth — 
Pale  in  life's  brightness,  and  still  in  its  mirth; 
Swarming  and  settling  like  spirits  of  bees 
Blown  from  the  blossoms  of  song-haunted  trees — 
Blown  with  the  petals  of  dreams  we  have  known, 
Rosy  with  heart  dews  of  days  that  are  gone. 

Spirits  of  flowers,  and  spectres  of  bees — 
Emblems  of  toil  and  its  guerdon  are  these — 
Thrown  to  us  silently — cold,  and  so  fair — 
From  the  gardens  that  gleam  in  the  regions  of  air; 
As  if  the  high  heavens  that  gathered  our  sighs 
Wept  for  the  promise  the  future  denies; — 
Dreamingly  lifted  the  glowing  bouquet, 
Sweet  with  life's  longing,  and  tossed  it  away ! 

Soft  as  the  touch  of  the  white-handed  moon 
Wreathing  the  world  in  a  twilight  of  June, 
Gently  and  lovingly  hastens  the  snow — 
Weaving  a  veil  for  dead  nature  below; 
Kissing  the  stains  from  the  hoof-beaten  street, 
Folding  the  town  in  a  slumber  so  sweet, 
Surely  the  stars,  in  their  helmets  of  gold, 
Pensively  linger  and  love  to  behold. 

21 


Thus  our  endeavor  may  fail  of  its  prize — 
Hope  and  ambition  drop  cold  from  our  skies ; 
Yet  on  the  pathway,  so  lonely  and  drear, 
Rugged  with  failure  and  clouded  by  fear, 
Spirits  of  beauty  come  out  of  defeat, 
Cover  life's  sorrows  and  shield  its  retreat — 
Healing  the  heart  as  the  fall  of  the  snow 
Brightens  the  darkness  of  winter  below. 

O,  when  the  Angel  of  Silence  has  brushed 
Me  with  his  wings,  and  this  pining  is  hushed, 
Tenderly,  graciously,  light  as  the  snow, 
Fall  the  kind  mention  of  all  that  I  know — 
Words  that  will  cover  and  whiten  the  sod, 
Folding  the  life  that  was  given  of  God; — 
Wayward  may  be,  and  persistent  to  rove — 
Restful,  at  last,  in  the  glamour  of  love! 


AUTUMN  LEAVES 

Oh,    droop,    sky    of   Autumn,    chaste   azure-browed 

Queen — 

Droop  and  whisper  the  leaves  a  good-bye! 
For  thy  cloud-woven  bridal-veil  decks  thee,  I  ween, 

As  the  bride  of  bold  Winter,  sweet  sky ; 
To  his  gloom-haunted  fortunes,  and  cold  couch  of 

storms, 
To  his  frowns   and   rude  buffets,   and  ice-bristling 

arms, 

We  resign  thee  in  sadness — good-bye  I 
93 


All  gracefully,  tenderly,  ever  so  near — 
Like  a  beautiful  maiden  that  grieves — 

The  pale  spouse  of  Winter,  on  forest  and  mere, 
Stoops  to  toy  with  the  death-painted  leaves ; 

Flaming  crimson,  warm  scarlet,  to  match  gold  and 
brown, 

Like  a  rich,  tattered  sunset,  fall  fluttering  down 
From  the  hand  of  the  maiden  that  grieves! 

A  desolate  peace  is  abroad  o'er  the  world, 

And  the  heart  neither  laughs  now  nor  cries; 
But  the  banners  of  Summer  are  gloomily  furled; 
Leaves  and  lips  have  no  language  but  sighs: 
While   a  noise   as   of   shrouds   that   are   trailing  is 

heard 
Where  the  crisp  robes  of  Autumn  are  rustled  and 

stirred, 
But  the  heart  neither  laughs  now  nor  cries. 

Oh,  bright,  beauteous  leaves — how  they  glittered  and 

tossed 

In  the  sheen  of  the  long  Summer's  day, 
When    the    warm,    wanton    zephyrs,    the    meadows 

across, 

Came  to  join  them  in  amorous  play. 
But  the  meadows  are  dismal,  and  barren  and  cold, 
And  the  hoarse  winds  that  rove  them  grown  ruthless 

and  bold, 
Since  the  lapse  of  the  long  Summer's  day. 


Oh,   green,   glossy   leaves,   how   they   quivered   and 

sighed, 

In  wild  dreams  of  the  wonderful  night — 
When  the  moon  like  a  silvery  barge  on  the  tide, 

Dashed  her  prow  through  the  lilies  of  light, 
And  the  lass  and  her  lover,  at  trysting  beneath, 
Twined    their   beautiful   love    with   a   mingling   of 

breath, 
And  were  part  of  the  wonderful  night. 

Alas  for  the  leaves !  dipped  in  dyes  of  the  morn — 
Crimson-plashed  in  the  life  of  the  year — 

Oh!  their  clustering  grace  is  dishevelled  and  torn, 
And  they  scatter,  distracted  with  fear: 

And  no  haunt  is  too  meek  for  their  wearisome  quest, 

As  they  drift  on  forever  in  dreary  unrest — 
Plashed  and  stained  in  the  life  of  the  year. 

Thus   loved   ones   and   lovely,   though   honored   the 

most, 

Are  cast  down  from  the  heights  they  adorn: 
Yet  lovely,  though  smitten,  are  drifted  and  tossed 

To  be  in  a  pitiless  scorn ; 
Thus  our  hopes,  bravely  hung  on  life's  tempest-blown 

tree, 
Bloom  and  blanch  in  our  dreams  of  a  glorious  "  To 

Be," 
But  are  torn  from  the  heights  they  adorn ! 


AFTER  HARVEST 

From  his  porch,  the  Northern  farmer 
Looks  across  the  trampled  fields, 

And  his  strong  heart  flushes  warmer 
With  the  joy  his  conquest  yields. 

For  his  boys  have  come,  a  glory 
On  the  sheaves  their  toil  has  won — 

Heroes  with  a  brighter  story 
Than  the  pallid  Spartan  son. 

Peace  has  drawn  her  azure  curtain 
'Round  the  mountain's  pillared  might, 

And  the  river,  slow,  uncertain, 
Loiters  in  the  yellow  light. 

Ruby  tints  have  touched  the  apples, 
Swelling  clusters  bend  the  vine; 

And  the  waiting  angel  dapples 
All  the  woods  with  crimson  sign. 

Falling,  falling,  softer,  sweeter, 
Fades  the  mellow  harvest  song; 

And  the  dreamy  days  are  fleeter 
And  the  restful  nights  are  long. 


MOLOKAI 

[One  of  the  Hawaiian  Islands  where  the  lepers  are  confined.] 

I. 

An  island  at  anchor  in  blue-bosomed  seas 

Is  evermore  haunting  my  soul  like  a  dream, 
And  the  mystical  grace  of  the  slender  palm-trees, 
That  lift  their  light  plumes  in  the  indolent  breeze, 
Recurs  in  my  thought,  like  the  strange  thread  of 

gold 
That  ran  in  the  woof  of  the  weaver  of  old ; 

And  still  shadows   lengthen  and  smooth  billows 
gleam. 

II. 

Gray  peaks  that  were  tossed  in  the  torture  of  fire 

Stand  bare  in  the  sun,  and  heroic  with  scars 
And  sculptures  of  battle,  and  anguish  and  ire, 
That  say  in  derision,  "  Be  strong  and  aspire !  " 
Bright  seas,  bitter-hearted,  strike  wild  on  the  shore 
And  sing  their  old  anthem,  "  Deplore  and  deplore 
For  all  that  is  sorrowful  under  the  stars ! " 

III. 

And  touched  by  the  moonlight,  their  sad  faces  glow, 
While  low,  like  the  wail  of  the  wind  in  the  pines, 
Their  fitful  songs  quiver,  and  broken  and  slow, 
Seem  lost  in  the  beat  of  the  surges  below; 


As  o'er  the  gilt  waters,  dream-sweet  and  afar, 
Their  hearts  travel  outward,  where,  lost  like  a  star 
That  fell  from  their  heaven,  Owyhee  reclines. 

IV. 

They  buy  not,  they  sell  not — the  joy  and  the  care 

Of  living  and  toiling  are  theirs  nevermore; 
But,  lonesome  and  weary,  and  calm  with  despair, 
They  sing  their  strange  songs  and  sit  braiding  their 

hair, 

Till  day  has  gone  down,  and  the  curtain  of  light 
Has  passed  from  the  tenderer  vision  of  night, 
And  dim  shadows  move  on  the  silvering  shore. 

V. 

What  reck  they  of  battle  or  council,  or  all 
The  hope  or  endeavor  of  laboring  time! 
The  golden  fruit  ripens,  the  white  loon  will  call 
Where  the  broad  wave  is  richest  and  all  things  befall 
That  stricken  souls  need  in  a  bountiful  isle, 
Caressed  by  the  sun  and  bedight  with  his  smile, 
The  blossom  and  crown  of  the  tropical  clime. 

VI. 

And  thus,  while  the  scheming  and  passionate  world 

Is  building  and  wrecking,  and  building  anew, 
A  strange  ship  at  anchor,  her  canvas  all  furled, 
While  suns  set  in  purple,  and  moon  is  impearled. 
Lies  low  Molokai,  and  the  indolent  palm 

27 


Scarce  flutters  a  plume,  for  the  days  are  so  calm, 
And  Pale  Death  her  grim  Captain — pale  lepers 
her  crew. 

VII. 

An  empire  of  death!     O,  the  world  has  not  known, 

In  all  its  great  story  of  trouble  and  wrong, 
Another  like  Molokai,  drear  and  alone, 
Where  Pluto,  the  hope-slayer,  sits  on  his  throne 
And  rules  as  a  tyrant,  unchecked  in  his  pride, 
With  none  to  dispute  him  and  none  to  deride, 
And  never  a  traitor  in  all  the  sad  throng! 

VIII. 

The  red  suns  wheel  over  and  drown  in  the  sea; 

Like  clustering  lilies  the  white  stars  decay ; 
Moons  blossom,  and  wither;  but  windward  or  lee 
No  rising  sail  beckons  or  bids  them  be  free, 
Till  low-sailing  sea-mists,  unmasted  and  pale, 
Drift  over  the  palm-trees,  and  drop  within  hail 

Of  the  sorrowing  spirits,  and  waft  them  away. 


AN  OUT-OF-DOOR  SONG 

Come  with  me,  oh,  you  world-weary, 
To  the  haunts  of  thrush  and  veery, 
To  the  cedar's  dim  cathedral, 
And  the  palace  of  the  pine, 
Let  the  soul  within  you  capture 
28 


Something  of  the  wild-wood  rapture, 
Something  of  the  epic  passion 
Of  that  harmony  divine. 

Down  the  pathway  let  us  follow 
Through  the  hemlocks  to  the  hollow, 
To  the  woven,  vine-wood  thickets 
In  the  twilight  vague  and  old, 
While  the  streamlet,  winding  after, 
Is  a  thread  of  silv'ry  laughter, 
And  the  boughs  above  hint  softly 
Of  the  melodies  they  hold. 

Through  the  forest,  never  caring 
What  the  way  our  feet  are  faring, 
We  shall  hear  the  wild  birds  revel 

In  the  labyrinth  of  tune, 
And  on  mossy  carpets  tarry 
In  His  temples  cool  and  airy, 

Hung  with  silence,  and  the  splendid 
Amber  tapestry  of  noon. 

Leave  the  hard  heart  of  the  city 
With  its  poverty  of  pity, 

Leave  the  folly  and  the  fashion 

Wearing  out  the  faith  of  men; 
Breathe  the  breath  of  life  blown  over 
Upland  meadows  white  with  clover, 
And  with  childhood's  clearer  vision- 
See  the  face  of  God  again. 


HOOD 

White  despot  of  the  wild  Cascades ! 
I  greet  thee,  as  the  twilight  shades 

Drop  like  a  curtain  from  the  wall, 
Where  sheaves  of  sunlight,  burning  yet 
On  frosted  tower  and  minaret, 

Portray  thee,  reigning  over  all! 

And  southward,  with  a  scarlet  glow 
Upon  his  gleaming  crest  of  snow, 

Old  Jeff erson  nods  thee  good-night ; 
And  further  yet,  like  fallen  stars, 
The  Sisters,  linked  with  sunset  bars, 

Are  beautiful  in  braided  light. 

O  Hood!  the  quiver  of  the  storm 
Has  hung  upon  thy  steadfast  form 

When  lightnings  wreathed  thy  brow  with  fire; 
And  Night  has  crushed  his  tempest  wings 
Against  thy  granite  anchorings 

And  left  no  record  of  his  ire. 

The  centuries  which  o'er  thee  tramp, 
Like  spectres  to  their  shadow  camp, 

Have  left  thee  neither  scar  nor  stain; 
The  gliding  dimples  of  the  sea — 
The  stars'  sweet-eyed  eternity — 

Do  not  a  lovelier  youth  maintain. 
30 


The  crimson  mantle  of  the  Dawn 
Is  first  around  thy  shoulders  drawn, 

When  all  the  vales  are  dim  with  shade ; 
And  sunset's  last  and  ling'ring  ray, 
Dropt  by  the  weary  hand  of  Day, 

Upon  thy  regal  brow  doth  fade. 

Thus  memory  and  hope  are  wrought 
Upon  thee,  as  the  sculptor's  thought 

Enwreathes  the  pallid  forms  of  stone  ;- 
And  Godward,  like  a  prophet's  prayer, 
Thou  scal'st  the  heaven's  windy  stair — 

Imperial,  serene,  alone! 

And  what  an  empire!  rough  and  shorn, 
By  old  disorders  ploughed  and  torn, 

Sunward  the  mighty  realms  expand; 
In  broidery  of  wood  and  mead 
Willamette's  green  mosaics  lead 

Westward  to  ocean's  misty  strand. 

Lodged  in  thy  helmet's  diamond  clasp 
The  star  of  conquest  rests  at  last, 

Above  the  tempest's  gloomy  track, — 
Its  rays  like  swords  of  triumph  crossed 
Upon  the  mound  so  newly  tossed — 

The  pioneer's  last  bivouac. 

A  pulse  of  fire,  on  nerves  of  steel, 
Has  reached  the  wilderness; — we  feel 
The  glorious  heart-beat  of  the  world, 
31 


And  in  thy  shadow,  Hood,  the  light 
Of  western  progress  glimmers  bright, 
Its  bannered  eagles  all  unfurled! 

With  mutterings  of  doubt  and  fear, 
And  worn  with  battle  long  and  drear, 

The  pagan  spirit  of  the  Past 
Stalks  through  the  silence,  gloomy-faced, 
A  wand'rer  in  his  templed  waste, 

Conscious  of  God  and  truth  at  last ! 

Already  round  the  brooding  Sphinx 
The  Eastern  desert  swells  and  sinks, 

And  slowly  shrouds  that  weary  face; 
And  stormy  spectres  sweep  the  land 
With  dry  and  rustling  robes  of  sand, 

And  whisper  of  a  perished  race. 

But  still  thy  hand,  in  crystal  mail, 
Here  flashing  to  the  clouds,  will  hail 

The  sheen  of  Freedom's  golden  crest, 
And  where  the  sea  tides  leap  and  shine, 
Along  the  new  world's  border  line, 

Proclaim  the  Empire  of  the  West! 


A  WINTER  FLOWER 

A  diffident  plant,  that  no  one  knew, 

Grew  close  to  the  rose's  place; 
But  never,  ah,  never,  the  sweet  summer  through, 
When  the  lily  and  rose  drank  the  light  and  dew, 
Was  it  crowned  with  a  blossom's  grace. 

But  soberly  green,  exhaling  the  while 

A  subtle  and  faint  perfume, 
It  seemed  like  the  shadow  that  ends  the  smile, 
The  sorrow  in  ambush  when  joys  beguile, 

In  the  riot  of  summer's  bloom. 

Then  the  morning  came  of  a  dreary  day, 

And  the  winds  of  winter  blew, 
And  they  wafted  an  odor  of  dull  decay, 
For  the  rose  and  the  lily  had  gone  their  way, 

As  the  fairest  are  fain  to  do. 

And  the  stormy  maple  beside  the  gate 

Like  a  wailing  minstrel  sung; 
For  the  fleeting  gold  of  its  royal  state, 
Blown  hard  by  the  vandal  winds  of  fate, 

In  tattered  banners  hung. 

But,  lo !  in  a  glory  of  gorgeous  bloom 
Stood  the  plant  that  was  sombre  green, 
3  33 


When  blossoms  of  summer  no  more  illume, 
Like  a  torch  of  light  in  the  garden's  gloom 
It  rose  in  symbolic  sheen. 

And  I  thought  of  the  friend  that  came  to  me 

In  the  dusk  of  unhappy  days, 
From  the  rush  of  the  false  that  turned  to  flee 
With  the  fleetnsss  of  fickle  inconstancy, 

And  still  at  my  side  delay*. 

It  is  thus  the  wealth  of  human  hearts 

In  a  dim  disase  may  lie 

Till  the  tempest  wings,  when  our  June  departs, 
The  hidden  world  into  blossom  starts 

To  brighten  the  dreary  sky. 

It  is  thus  that  our  faith  in  man  and  God, 

Untried  in  our  summer  hours, 
Like  the  plant  that  blooms  in  a  rain-swept  sod, 
May  wake  at  the  touch  of  the  chastening  rod, 

And  life  have  its  winter  flowers. 


SULLIED  WATERS 

Behold  the  living  fountain's  home — 
Among  the  mysteries  that  guard 
The  purple  stairways  heavenward, 
Where  crested  peaks  that  rise  and  reach 
By  minaret  and  spire  and  dome 
Of  templed  song  and  sculptured  speech ! 
34 


Here  Dian  dips  her  golden  keel, 

Low  sailing  for  the  western  sea 

In  maiden-mild  serenity, 
And  diamond  wreaths  of  drifted  snow 
Blush  with  the  beauty  they  reveal, 
In  sunset's  holy  after-glow. 

Above  the  tempest's  murky  rings, 
Within  the  silver  mist  that  weaves 
The  tapestry  of  summer  eves, 
The  fountain,  like  a  liquid  star, 
Superbly  from  its  prison  springs 
And  greets  its  kingdom  from  afar. 

Away  and  down  a  minstrel  white — 
Await  resplendent — beam  and  braid 
Of  beaded  swirl  and  white  cascade, 
And  soon  the  gleaming  slopes  are  past 
The  pines  appear,  a  band  of  might, 
That  sway  and  chant  in  every  blast. 

Lean  over  it,  O  solemn  pines, 

Clasp  hands  and  whisper  dreams  and  fears 
To  darken  all  the  coming  years, 

It  gives  you  back  the  minor  key 

That  thrills  in  music's  sweetest  lines — 

The  mystery  of  minstrelsy. 

And  far,  in  fragrant  canyon  gloom 
The  golden  murmurs   rise   and   fall 
In  symphony  and  madrigal. 
35 


A  thread  of  laughter  rippling  through 
The  changes  of  the  sounding  loom — 
Yet  something  still  to  mourn  and  rue. 

Through  the  delightful  mountain  land, 
A  gypsy  route,  as  fair  as  free, 
A  careless  wandering  to  the  sea, 
Through  forests  old  and  glad  and  green, 
With  cliffs  and  crags  on  either  hand, 
And  gems  of  rosy  vale  between. 

Away  where  boys,  at  country  plays, 
Send  happy  clamor  down  the  breeze 
On  swarded  slopes  and  sunny  leas, — 
Where  maidens  dress  their  wavy  hair 
With  crimson  buds  and  tasseled  sprays, 
And  all  the  world  is  young  and  fair. 

By  village,  farm  and  tricksy  town, 
The  widening  waters  play  and  pass, 
Swinging  the  magic  azure  glass 
Where  all  life's  shadows,  sad  and  sweet, 
From,  ruby  dawn  to  twilight  brown, 
Are  still  reflected,  fixed  or  fleet. 

Rose  gardens  and  sweet  clover  fields 
Breathe  over  it  a  rich  perfume, 
And  Sabbath  bells  and  bells  of  doom 
Mix  with  it  music  and  are  part 
Of  all  the  river  gains  or  yields 
Of  empire  o'er  the  human  heart. 
36 


At  last,  before  the  city  gates 

The  broad  and  splendid  waters  roll, 
But  silent — songless  as  a  soul 

The  fates  have  tossed  and  sorrows  stained, 

Till  never  more  a  dream  elates, 

Or  any  seeming  good  is  gained. 

Across  the  seething,  sullied  tide 

The  wild  lights  flicker,  and  the  roar 
Of  commerce  sweeps  from  shore  to  shore 

With  clang  of  iron,  shriek  of  steam, 

And  through  it  all  the  still  ships  glide, 

Like  spectres  in  a  cruel  dream. 

So  rank  with  nameless  slough  and  slime, 
'Twere  well  to  pass  with  muffled  brow, 
O  river,  dark  and  secret  now; — 

To  pass,  and  give  no  sigh  or  clew 

To  any  damning  deed  of  crime 

That  shrouds  thee  in  this  cloudy  hue. 

The  dead,  the  dead,  the  awful  dead 
That  swirl  and  swirl  in  eddies  dark 
By  clammy  wharf  and  creaking  bark ! 
It  is  a  fate  but  partly  told, 
'Twere  well  to  leave  it  all  unsaid — 
And  battle  on  for  love  and  gold. 

But  lo,  the  tide    resistlessly 

Hath  borne  us  on,  and  hark !  I  hear 
The  tread  of  columned  legions  near: 
37 


It  is  the  ocean's  martial  throng — 
The  bridal  music  of  the  sea — 

The  world's  wide  waters,  bold  and  strong. 

Ten  thousand  flashing  silver  plumes 
Sweep  by  the  ocean  gates,  and  far 
Resounds  the  thunder  of  the  war, 
In  rhythmic  cadence,  vast  and  deep, 
And  o'er  the  squadroned  waves  the  fumes 
Of  splendid  conflict  toss  and  sweep. 

And  by  those  misted,  stormy  gates 
The  sullied  waters  pass  and  part, 
Like  old  affections  of  the  heart 
That  have  abided  to  the  end — 
Then  pass  and  part  to  other  fates, 
While  stars  return  and  suns  ascend1. 

The  salt  sad  sea  gives  back  its  dead; 
O  turbid  river,  wail  no  more 
The  passing  pageant  of  the  shore; 

Again  to  April's  mystic  bow 

And  sunset  roses,  warm  and  red, 

Our  eyes  shall  turn — and  we  shall  know! 

The  crested  clouds  of  pearl  and  gold 
And  all  the  kingly  pomp  that  waits 
At  morning  round  the  crystal  gates, 

Will  be  but  souvenirs  of  thee; 

The  dewdrops  in  the  flowers'  fold, 

Thy  jewels,  rescued  from  the  sea! 


THE  SISTERS 

[Three  snow  peaks  of  the  Cascade  Range.] 

Northward  and  Southward,  vapor  barred, 
Shasta  and  Hood  keep  watch  and  ward 
Lone  as  forgotten  stars  that  lean 
On  shields  of  high  heraldic  sheen — 
Biding  the  years  andl  yet  on  guard. 

Highland  and  lowland,  green  and  gray, 
Here  sweeps  the  middle  realm  away — 
A  thousand  keen  crags  lifted  through 
The  forests'  folded  robes  of  blue, 
Misted  in  night  or  bathed  in  day. 

A  thousand  vales  like  jewels  flung 

The  revels  of  the  hills  among, 

Rich  with  intaglios,  rife  with  gleams 
Of  lakes  impearled,  and  twining  streams 

Fair  as  Virgilian  verse  has  sung;. 

And  lo,  in  central  tumult  throned, 
Like  Queens  some  ancient  race  has  owned, 
The  Sisters  Three,  with  maiden  brows 
Enwreathed  with  saintly  vestal  vows, 
Arise  in  beauty  azure  zoned! 


Forever,  on  the  bold  Cascades, 
Above  the  purple  canyon  shades, 

The  phalanxed  firs  and  tragic  peaks — 
Tossed  high  in  nature's  stormy  freaks, 
They  weave  and  wind  their  mystic  braids. 

Their  pyramidic  calm  the  storms 
Assail  in  vain,  their  wreathen  forms, 
Typic  of  virtues  that  arise 
In  our  heart-breeding  agonies, 
Unmoved  in  midst  of  wild  alarms. 

Serene,  in  silver  robes  of  snow, 

They  watch  the  wild  years  ebb  and  flow, 
And  tell  their  crystal  rosaries 
Through  the  long  vigil  fate  decrees 

As  changing  fortunes  come  and  go. 

Morning  and  evening  garland  them, 
And  starlight  weaves  a  diadem 

All  tremulous  with  lilies  pale, 

And  sibyl  shadows,  like  a  veil, 
Drop  softly  to  their  mantle's  hem. 


THE  LOST  PATH 

In  the  plaintive  light  of  the  past  it  lies 
Where  young  dreams  garland  the  gentle  skies, 
Wayward  and  winding,  smooth  and  cool, 
The  foot-worn  path  to  the  country  school ! 

40 


Along  the  lane  where  the  orchard  trees 
Were  bright  with  blossoms  and  brave  with  bees, 
Across,  where  the  white-crowned  clover  kneeled, 
To  the  rustling  ranks  of  the  richer  field: 
And  out  where  the  oaks  and  maples  made 
A  woven  mystery  of  light  and  shade, 
It  dipped  and  dallied,  and  mocked  at  rule, 
And  the  drowsy  tasks  of  the  country  school. 

Now  swerving  wide  on  a  ruthless  raid, 
Where  the  merry  squirrels  romped  and  played, 
And  pausing  long  where  the  eagle's  nest 
Was  ever  a  dream  of  knightly  quest, 
Then  away  through  the  rainbow  clouds  of  flowers 
That  tangled  the  feet  of  the  laughing  hours; — 
There  was  little  thought  of  the  desk  and  stool, 
On  that  winding  way  to  the  country  school. 

But  look,  where  the  pathway  climbs  the  stile 

Some  one  has  waited  a  weary  while; 

She  has  decked  her  hair  with  a  bramble  rose, 

And  a  sweet,  shy  light  in  her  brown  eye  glows. 

"  It  is  late,"  you  sigh,  but  you  loiter  yet 

Tho'  the  gossiping  blackbirds  flounce  and  fret 

In  the  golden  willows  beside  the  pool, 

Like  the;  scolding  crones  of  the  country  school. 

Alas,  Life's  river  is  swirling  fast, 
But  the  rose  has  tinted  the  dewy  Past, 
And  up  from  its  crimson  mists  at  times 
The  winding  and  wayward  pathway  climbs 

41 


In  the  old,  wild  way,  with  a  careless  art, 
To  loiter  and  curve  in  a  fading  heart, 
In  the  old  wild  way  as  smooth  and  cool 
Is  all  that  is  left  of  the  country  school. 


OREGON  IN  SUMMER 

Oh,  sweet  was  young  Endymion's  dream, 

Beside  the  lilies  and  the  lake, 
But  over  thee  thy  white  peaks  gleam, 

And  thine  is  sweeter  all  awake; 
For  thou  may'st  dream  and  yet  not  sleep, 

Fair  warden  of  the  western  gate, 
With  freedom's  spear  and  shield  to  keep 

Till  all  the  clouds  of  war  abate. 

Along  the  Cascades'  rugged  walls 

Thy  crystal'd  towers  grandly  rise, 
And  Shasta  to  St.  Helen's  calls 

The  glory  of  thy  young  emprise. 
Thy  mountains  loom  in  purple  haze, 

The  deep  green  forests  billow  wild, 
And  in  the  fields  glad  harvest  days 

The  golden  sheaves  have  richly  piled. 

Like  some  vast  army  plumed  and  mailed, 
Storming  its  way  in  fierce  crusade, 

Columbia's  waters,  flushed  and  paled 
By  joy  and  sorrow,  sun  and  shade, 


Roll  to  the  sea;    by  forests  dim, 
Through  resonant  cathedral  aisles, 

Responding  to  the  mighty  hymn 
Of  triumphs  for  a  thousand  miles. 

Bronzed  in  the  mellow  sun,  o'er 

Weird  crags  that  swim  in  stainless  blue5 
Thy  stern-eyed  eagles  launch  and  soar, 

Like  faith,  that  lifts  our  hopes  anew. 
And  what  an  empire  they  behold! 

Still  rich  in  fresh  barbaric  charms, 
As  radiant  in  summer  gold 

Each  scene  with  deeper  color  warms. 

Beyond  the  mountain  range  that  stands 

Between  the  valleys  and  the  sea, 
The  soft  surf  beats  the  gleaming  sands 

And  weaves  mist-wreaths  eternally; 
Swept  inward  by  each  breeze  that  blows, 

The  vapory  garlands  drift  serene, 
And  richer  crimson  stains  the  rose 

While  woods  and  vales  are  vernal  green. 

As  still  thy  calm,  bronze  eagles  wheel, 

And  hold  their  realm  in  upper  sky; 
They  see  the  bright  Willamette  steal 

From  frozen  caves  and  wander  by, 
A  glorious  dream  of  youth  and  grace, 

Among  the  roses  and  the  wheat, 
And  cities  fair  a  sturdy  race 

Has  builded  up  beyond  defeat. 
43 


They  see  the  smoking  censer  swung, 

Before  the  matchless  river's  falls, 
As  if  to  hush  the  murmur  wrung 

By  stern  old  ocean's  stormy  calls; 
And  lo !  on  some  bold  height  they  see 

The  antlered  elk  in  royal  pose, 
Reviewing  with  proud  majesty 

The  vales  where  fragrant  summer  glows. 

And  may  we  not  conceive  that  Pan, 

The  god  the  Galilean  drove 
From  all  the  ancient  haunts  of  man 

And  ev'ry  sacred  grot  and  grove, 
Is  here  enthroned  with  all  his  band 

Of  nymphs  and  satyrs  and  the  rest — 
That  here  the  dreams  of  fairy  land 

The  building  of  a  state  have  blest? 

Where  the  mottled  pheasant  in  sweet  shade 

Awaits  the  passing  of  the  noon, 
And  quails  in  knightly  crests  arrayed 

Are  straying  by  the  brooklet's  rune; 
Where  mountain  trout,  with  steely  gleams, 

Flits  over  pebbly,  gold-flecked  sands, 
The  nymphs  are  singing  to  the  streams 

And  list'ning  for  their  god's  commands. 

Oh,  land  of  streams,  whose  silvery  braid1 
So  graces  these  dear  vales  of  ours, 

And  has  a  fairy  garden  made, 

Enriched  with  glowing  fruits  and  flowers ; 
44 


Oh,  land  of  peaks  and  woods ;  may  we 
By  Hood's  stern  brow,  St.  Helen's  dome, 

Be  sure  to  keep  good  faith  with  thee; 
And  may  God  bless  our  mountain  home! 


THE  FIRST  FALL  OF  THE  SNOW 

In  misty  silence,  dim  and  gray, 

The  haggard  world  last  evening  lay. 

There  were  no  birds  at  vesper  call, 
No  garlands  on  the  western  wall ; 

No  crimson  kisses  of  the  light 

To  warm  the  falling  fringe  of  night, 

As  lowering  his  shield,  the  sun 
Withdrew  at  once,  and  day  was  done. 

The  pines  in  plumy  phalanx  stood, 
Embattled  monarchs  of  the  wood; 

The  oak,  with  stript  and  knotted  arm 
Invoked  the  challenge  of  the  storm; 

And  asps  and  alders,  by  the  streams, 
Were  lost  in  lonesome  summer  dreams. 

A  moment  thus,  in  dark  tableau, 
You  read  the  spectral  sign  of  woe, 
45 


And  then  beside  the  roseate  hearth 
Forgot  it  all  in  ease  and  mirth. 

You  saw  the  ruby  sparkles  bloom, 
And  fade  again  in  ashen  gloom, 

As  memories,  within  your  heart, 
Like  flowers  flashed  and  fell  apart, — 

And  all  the  while,  with  muffled  tread, 
The  winds  foretold  the  change  that  sped. 

Perhaps  in  wakeful  mood,  last  night, 
You  heard  a  whisper,  low  and  light  — 

The  sound  of  wings  that  touched  and  passed 
The  vibrant  panes  of  window  glass  — 

The  rustle  of  a  robe  that  kissed 
The  roof  as  soft  as  trailing  mist. 

'Twas  then  a  flaky  lustre  fell 
In  starry  woof  of  asphodel, 

And  gloss  of  diamond,  foam  of  pearl, 
Inwrought  in  many  an  airy  whirl, — 

As  if,  in  hyacinthine  bowers, 

Some  sweeter  anthem  shook  the  flowers, 

Like  petaled  moonlight  o'er  the  globe — 
A  gleaming,  soft,  and  magic  robe. 

46 


And  so,  at  morn,  you  wake  to  see 
Our  earth  a  lovely  mystery — 

A  bridal  orb,  a  blossomed  star, 
Redeemed  of  every  woe  and  scar; 

And  yet  this  saintly  crown  shall  pass 
In  golden  bloom  and  tasselled  grass, 

When  all  the  rippled  streams  shall  sing 
The  coronation  of  the  Spring. 


O!  thus  in  sorrow's  wintry  night 
Is  shed  the  blessing  of  our  blight! 

Thus  in  the  watches  of  despair 
The  angels  seek  us  unaware, 

And  all  our  clouded  griefs  above 
Are  falling  in  a  wreath  of  love. 

Thus  on  a  pallid  realm  of  thought 
The  miracle  of  grace  is  wrought, 

And  shining  halcyons  of  peace 

Stoop  from  the  storm  with  sweet  surcease. 

And  thus,  refreshed  in  wreathen  sleep, 
Some  happy  dream  the  soul  will  keep, 

Till  dreams  shall  blossom  into  deed 
And  feast  the  world's  eternal  need. 
47 


THE  OREGON  CHINOOK 

Where  JEolus,  king  of  the  murmuring  caves, 
When  his  chariot  stands  on  the  gleaming  waves, 
Is  bleak  of  soul,  and  his  lips  are  curled 
With  a  withering  curse  for  the  wintry  world, 
He  beckons  the  crisp-haired  East  to  his  side 
And  bids  her  harness  her  steeds  and  ride. 

We  hear  the  moan  of  rushing  wheels, 
And  the  drip  of  the  floating  cloud  congeals 
And  is  dashed  in  the  pallid  swirl  of  snow 
Across  the  face  of  the  earth  below 
'Til  its  mirth  is  stilled,  and  its  joys  are  fled, 
And  the  stark  fields  lie  like  the  sheeted  dead. 

For  she  trails  a  shroud  from  her  icy  spear, 
Dusted  with  jewels,  but  oh,  so  dear! 
It  were  better  to  sleep  in  the  bare  brown  mould 
Than  to  lie  in  the  sweep  of  its  sheeny  fold. 
She  has  bound  the  streams  with  a  crystal  chain, 
Fettered  the  hills  and  their  sweet  hopes  slain! 

Then  weirdly  over  the  forest  rings 
A  shrill  lament  for  its  crownless  kings, 
And  the  bannered  march  of  the  summer  days, 
When  joy  was  duty  and  life  was  praise, 
While  over  the  chimney,  at  night,  we  hear 
The  voices  of  sorrow  and  wrath  and  fear. 

48 


But  the  East  rides  on,  and  a  gale  of  death 
Is  blown  with  her  dry  and  frosty  breath, 
As  the  chilling  blood  to  the  heart  returns, 
Where  the  crimson  fire  of  life  still  burns, 
And  our  souls  grow  bitter,  and  cold  and  keen, 
Miserly  and  shrunken,  and  pale  and  lean. 

For  the  tradesmen  fold  their  idle  hands, 

And  far  on  the  Wasco  pasture  lands 

The  hungering  herd  can  never  stir 

From  the  shade  of  the  pine  and  juniper; 

And  the  gainful  traffic  of  men  is  deacl 

And  the  children  of  labor  must  wail  for  bread. 

Alas!  in  that  wizen  and  rueful  time 
The  bells  of  affection  are  out  of  chime, 
While  no  more  at  eve  on  his  golden  stair 
Does  love  to  the  happy  tryst  repair, 
And  never  a  bosom  feels  the  glow 
That  coaxes  the  orange  buds  to  blow. 

But  O,  when  out  of  the  languid  South 
And  sweet  as  the  breath  of  a  rosy  mouth, 
The  Chinook  arises  and  northward  blows 
Across  the  shield  of  the  gleaming  snows, 
How  wakes  the  world  that  it  breathes  upon, 
Wakes  life  and  laughter  in  Oregon! 

O!  rich  and  warm,  as  if  it  came 
From  an  isle  where  the  dark  red  poppies  flame, 
And  the  hazy  Indian  summer  dreams 
4  49 


O'er   the   tents    that   are  pitched   by   the  winding 

streams, 

And  the  Indian  maidens,  singing  low, 
Are  weaving  a  floral  charm  they  know. 

There  is  little  wonder  that  it  has  caught 
A  name  with  these  wayward  fancies  fraught, 
What  wonder  her  lingering  kisses,  wet 
With  the  dews  of  the  rose  and  the  violet, 
Should  charm  from  our  fields  the  wintry  pall 
And  revive  the  blossomy  hopes  of  all. 

Let  us  rear  a  statue  of  passing  grace 
In  every  Oregon  market  place, 
An  Indian  maiden  with  midnight  hair 
Blown  back  from  her  bosom  brown  and  bare, 
And  the  glow  of  summer  in  all  her  look, 
As  the  type  of  the  glorified  Chinook. 


THE  FEAST  OF  APPLE  BLOOM 

When  the  sky  is  a  dream  of  violet 

And  the  days  are  rich  with  gold, 
And  the  satin  robe  of  the  earth  is  set 

With  the  jewels  wrought  of  old; 
When  the  woodlands  wave  in  choral  seas 

And  the  purple  mountains  loom, 
It  is  heaven  to  come  with  birds  and  bees 

To  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 
50 


For  the  gabled  roof  of  "the  home  arose 

O'er  the  sheen  of  the  orchard  snow, 
And  is  still  my  shrine  when  storms  repose 

And  the  gnarly  branches  blow; 
While  the  music  of  childhood's  singing  heart, 

That  was  lost  in  the  backward  gloom, 
May  be  heard  when  the  robins  meet  and  part 

At  the  feast  of  the  apple  bloom. 

And  I  think,  when  the  trees  display  a  crown 

Like  the  gleam  of  a  resting  dove, 
Of  a  face  that  was  framed  in  tresses  brown 

And  aglow  with  a  mother's  love ; 
At  the  end  of  the  orchard  path  she  stands, 

While  I  laugh  at  my  manhood's  doom, 
As  my  spirit  flies  with  lifted  hands 

To  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 

When  the  rainbow  paths  of  faded  skies 

Are  restored  with  the  diamond  rain, 
And  the  joys  of  my  wasted  paradise 

Are  returning  to  earth  again, 
It  is  sadder  than  death  to  know  how  brief 

Are  the.  smiles  that  the  dead  assume; 
But  a  moment  allowed,  a  flying  leaf 

From  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 

But  a  golden  arch  forever  shines 
In  the  dim  and  darkening  past, 

Where  I  stand  again  as  day  declines, 
And  the  world  is  bright  and  vast; 
51 


For  the  glory  that  lies  along  the  lane 
Is  endeared  with  sweet  perfume 

And  the  world  is  ours,  and  we  are  twain 
At  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 

She  was  more  than  fair  in  the  wreath  she  wore 

Of  the  creamy  buds  and  blows, 
And  she  comes  to  me  from  the  speechless  shore 

When  the  flowering  orchard  glows; 
And  I  sigh  for  the  dreams  so  sweet  and  swift, 

That  are  laid  in  a  sacred  tomb — 
Yet  are  nothing  at  last  but  fragrant  drift 

From  the  feast  of  apple  bloom. 


FALLS  OF  THE  WILLAMETTE 

Here  wheels  the  thunder-breathing  steed, 
As  if  in  dread  to  stay  and  heed 

A  grander  pageant  than  his  own, 
Wild  waters  whirl  in  cresting  spray, 
Fair  as  the  fragrant  wreaths  of  May, 

And  loud  with  laughter,  song  and  moan. 

Yonder  embattled  firs  around, 

Chant   high   above,   in  martial   sound, 

The  paeans  of  the  marching  years ; 
And  here  a  dark,  historic  cliff, 
Writ  o'er  with  many  a  hieroglyph, 

Echoes  and  answers,  leans  and  hears. 
52 


And  lo !    Within  the  surge  and  roar, 
Scarfed  with  a  rainbow  evermore, 

The  pallid  priestess  of  the  flood, 
Swinging  her  censer  to  and  fro, 
As  swift  suns  wheel  and  soft  moons  glow 

Aloof,  through  lapsing  time  has  stood. 

The  tented  and  the  tawny  bands 

Whose  camp-smoke  curled  along  these  sands, 

And  climbed  and  crowned  the  rocky  shore, 
To  murmurless  deep  seas  and  pale 
Have  passed,  with  gray  and  slanting  sail, 

Forgetful  of  the  spear  and  oar. 

So  now  beside  this  stormy  gate, 
Pilgrims  of  brighter  visage  wait, 

To  rest  in  turn  beneath  the  sod: — 
Yet  shall  this  melody  be  rolled 
For  aye,  these  voices  manifold 

The  echo  of  a  changeless  God! 

THE  MAPLE  AT  THE  GATE 

Like  a  goddess  in  sorrow  dishevelled, 

October  sits  grieving  alone 
By  the  rivers  where  beauty  has  revelled 

In  the  odorous  days  that  are  gone; 
A  fillet  of  scarlet  leaves  lonely 

Surrounds  the  ambrosial  hair 
That  is  flowing  upon  her  profusely 

And  crowns  her  all  womanly  fair. 
53 


The  scent  of  dead  leaves  and  dead  roses 
Yet  lingers  where!  rapture  was  born, 

But  a  mystical  whisper  imposes 
A  silence  so  deep  and  forlorn: 

For  the  music  is  done,  and  the  dancers 
Have  gone  their  mysterious  ways 

To  weep  or  to  sleep,  but  no  answers 

•  Return  to  the  last  that  delays. 

The  hearts  that  have  swelled  in  soft  laces, 

Like  waves  in  a  blossom  of  foam, 
The  love-molten  lips  and  fair  faces, 

All  gone  where  the  pale  summers  roam: 
And  the  rustling  of  robes,  and  wan  shimmer 

Of  tresses  unbound  in  the  sun, 
Like  memories,  fainter  and  dimmer, 

Remind  us  the  revel  is  done. 

And  we  envy  the  doom  of  the  flowers 

That  sighed  a  good-night  ere  they  slept : 
Their  summer  was  richer  than  ours, 

Yet  they  have  not  lingered  and  wept; 
They  lie  among  grasses  and  briars, 

Unheeding  the  joys   that  have  fled, 
And  the  night  winds,  responding  like  friars, 

Chant  over  the  beautiful  dead. 

Here  sadly  at  evening  I  ponder 

By  the  maple  that  leans  o'er  the  gate, 

When  the  sun  rests  its  shield  over  yonder 
A-weary  of  empire  and  state; 
54 


For  the  maple  is  solemnly  glowing, 

A  glory  of  funeral  fire, 
And  the  sibylline  autumn  is  throwing 

Red  stains  on  the  sacred  attire. 

What  troths  have  been  plighted,  I  wonder, 

In  the  flickering  shade  of  her  bower? 
What  hearts  that  have  wandered  asunder 

Met  here  for  a  passionate  hour? 
What  rosy  caresses,  what  kisses 

Of  lips  that  were  wreathed  with  flame 
When  the  stars  from  their  blue  wildernesses 

Looked  down  without  shadow  of  blame! 

But  the  birds  that  once  sung  as  they  braided 

Soft  nests  in  these  tapestried  halls 
Are  gone  with  the  days  that  have  faded 

As  her  coronal  withers  and  falls. 
The  loves  were  requited,  or  broken, 

The  romance  has  grown  weary  and  old, 
And  the  falling  dead  leaf  is  a  token 

That  life  is  unlovely  and  cold. 

While  the  loves  of  us  all   are  thus  falling, 

And  wild1  o'er  the  billowy  world, 
We  listen  for  fate's  muffled  calling 

And  drift  with  our  sails  darkly  furled; 
As  we  carry  our  dead  as  we  wander, 

And  dream  of  a  lovelier  shore, 
While  many  the  tears  that  we  squander, 

Yet  know  not  the  loss  we  deplore. 
55 


But  the  maple  has  lent  us  her  story ; 

Illumined  and  tinted  each  page! 
And  winter  may  come,  chill  and  hoary, 

And  trample  her  wreath  in  his  rage, 
But  we,  that  have  read  it  discreetly, 

Have  come  to  be  wise  in  our  grief, 
For  our  tremulous  spirits  take  sweetly 

The  lore  of  the  crimsoning  leaf. 

For  the  leaves,  ere  they  wither,  must  nourish 

The  buds  that  shall  banner  the  May, 
And  the  rootlets  will  strengthen  and  flourish 

In  the  generous  mould  of  decay, 
And  so,  with  relentless  endeavor, 

Yet  nearer  and  nearer  the  stars, 
The  soul  builds  its  kingdom  forever 

In  the  dust  of  its  woes  and  its  wars. 

OREGON  RAIN 

It  is  raining,  raining,  raining ! 

And  my  spirit  darkly  rues 
All  the  pleasures  that  are  waning 

In  a  carnival  of  blues. 
For  the  constant  drone  and  sputter 
Of  the  shower  seems  to  mutter 

Memories  of  Noah's  cruise! 
Surely  neither  navigation, 
Irrigation,  or  oblation, 
Nor  the  final  conflagration 

Such  a  streaming  flood  require. 
56 


Nor  the  gentle  mitigation 
Of  the  regulation  ration 

Of  the  lurid  liquid  fire! 
Lo,  there's  something  awful  in  it — 
And  I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute 

Of  a  fancy,  damp  and  dire, 

From  some  planet's  spectral  stare — 
Down,  and  down,  within  the  hollow 
Womb  of  seas  where  bright  Apollo 

Never  drifts  his  yellow  hair     „ 

O'er  the  rising  blush  of  morn, — 
Nor  the  moon  to  any  maiden 
Pours  the  silv'ry  dream  of  Aidenn 

From  her  lily  wreathen  horn, 

Earth  has  fallen  as  of  old, 
In  the  dying  baron's  wassail, 

Fell  the  wine-flushed  cup  of  gold. 
Round  about  the  dripping  shrouds 
Of  the  weary  dreary  clouds 

In  the  charnel  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  toiling  globe  of  ocean 
Swings  in  dark,  mysterious  motion 

Round  a  misty  realm  of  sleep; 
And  a  silence,  dim,  eternal, 
Hushes  all  the  march  of  time; — 
Only  ever  and  forever, 
Like  the  wail  of  some  lone  river, 
Fraught  with  sorrow  strange,  supernal, 
Mourn  the  clouds,  in  deaseless  rhyme, 

As  they  ever  weep  and  weep: 
Fallen  world  of  wrong  and  sorrow, 
67 


Never  hope  for  brighter  morrow — 

Doom  has  met  thee  at  the  tryst! 
In  the  glamour  of  thy  dreaming 
Thro'  the  ivory-gated  East; 
With  the  red  and  purple  feast 

Of  the  roses  he  has  kissed! 
For  the  gold-browed  stars  have  faced  them 

Off  to  other  loveis  and  wars, 
And  the  sparkling  crest  of  Venus 
That  so  often  flashed  between  us 

Turns  along  the  trail  of  Mars. 
O,  the  years  shall  wane  and  sicken, 
And  the  turbid  clouds  shall  thicken, 

In  the  lonely  lapse  of  time, 
Till  the  cavern  gloom  of  sea 
Fills,  anon,  with  massy  waters, 
And  Willamette's  sons  and  daughters 

Rise  to  other  lives  sublime 
In  an  ocean  broad  and  free! 
O  the  changes,  slow,  dramatic, 

Of  the  gloomy  world  terrene — 
Merging  still  to  shapes  aquatic 

As  the  agtes  shift  the  scene, 
Till  the  rustling  woods  that  quiver 

Sweet  with  every  sigh  and  sound, 
Never  wake  again,  and  never 

Song  of  bird  is  heard  around; 
And  the  music  and  the  beauty, 
Toil  and  battle,  love  and  duty, 

Of  the  bright  terrestrial  space 
Shall  be  hushed  and  chilled  and  faded 


In  the  ghostly  deeps  invaded 

By  a  cold  and  silent  race; 
O  thy  hamlets  of  the  meadows, 

And  thy  cities  of  the  plain; — 
Have  we  not  their  fates  and  shadows 

In  the  sunny  tropic  main? 
Coral  cities,  wall  and  tower, 
Temples,  arches,  tree  and  flower, 

Wrought  with  all  the  soul  of  art! 
And  the  fishes,  gold  and  scarlet — 

Silver-mailed,  and  purple-barred, 
Shine,  like  idle  orient  people, 

'Mong  the  columns,  flushed  and  starred; 
And  a  myriad  shapes  of  terror, 
Dumb  as  death  and  black  as  error, 

Loiter  slow  in  street  and  isle 
Or  in  slumber's  horrid  semblance 

Lure  their  prey  with  hellish  smile. 
Thus  forever  and  forever, 

Till  the  sad  sea  songs  are  sung, 
Name  or  fame  of  thee  shall  never 

Live  on  human  lip  or  tongue; 
Set  within  the  dim  recesses 
Of  the  ocean's  wildernesses 

Shall  thy  sculptured  city  shine, 
And  the  gold  of  mermaid  tresses 

Match  the  emerald  of  thine! 
And  I  sit  and  look  and  listen, 

While  the  pathos  of  the  rain 
And  the  streaming  tears  that  glisten 

On  the  misty  window  pane 


Weave  a  sadness  in  my  fancy 

And  a  horror  in  my  brain! 
Ah,  believe  me,  land  of  apples, 

Swarming  hives,  and  matchless  grain, 
'Tis  a  fate  that  with  thee  grapples 

In  the  sobbing  of  the  rain; 
And  its  ceaseless  hum  and  patter 
Is  the  many  million  clatter 

Of  a  vast  surrounding  main, — 
Beating,  beating,   nor  retreating 
Till  its  hoof  prints  weld  the  change 
Of  a  people — fleeting,  fleeting 

Into  ocean's  finny  main. 

THE  KING  DISROBED 

When  the  fair  harvest's  cloth  of  gold 
Was  gathered,  shining  fold  on  fold, 
And  borne  away,  and  riding  after, 
Swart  knights  of  toil  madfe  jest  and  laughter, 
High  on  his  ancient  granite  throne, 
Hedged  by  dim  spears,  sat  Hood  alone, 
In  majesty  of  mighty  mould. 

Grand  was  the  largess  he  bestowed, 

Until  the  garners  overflowed, 
And  August,  on  his  sickle  leaning, 
Had  half  forgot  Time's  restless  meaning, 
So  charmed  he  was  to  hear  the  song 
Of  peace  and  plenty  swell  along 

The  tawny  fields  where  summer  glowed. 
60 


Then  sweet  September  burned  away, 

As  wistful  as  a  nuptial  day; 
Blue  was  the  sky,  and  blue  the  river 
Where  Dian  saw  her  mirrored  quiver, 
Filled  with  its  silver  arrows,  float 
Beneath  the  passing  pleasure  boat; 

And  smiled  again,  but  could  not  stay. 

All  through  the  first  October  days 
The  sunshine  swooned  in  netted  haze, 
While  musky  grapes  anon  were  reeling 
With  the  rich  nectar  they  were  stealing. 
And  down  among  the  orchard  trees 
The  ripe  fruit  dropt  with  every  breeze, 
And  hushed  were  all  the  harvest  lays. 

Now  turn — the  mighty  chief  behold! 

Still  flames  his  splendid  crown  of  gold, 
But  his  brown  limbs,  tho'  bare,  are  telling, 
With  every  rocky  muscle  swelling, 
How  grand  a  king  he  is,  withal, 
Though  his  bright  ermine  from  him  fall, 

And  leave  him  like  a  beggar  old. 

Never  more  kingly,  for  he  gave 
His  robe  to  send  the  cool  life-wave 
Down  to  the  parching  valleys  yonder, 
Where  maidens,  with  sweet  eyes  of  wonder, 
Look  up  to  see  his  visage  shine, 
And  richer  yet  than  purple  wine, 
The  sunset  light  his  shoulders  lave. 
61 


How  grandly  calm  he  sits  and  waits 
The  opening  of  the  sapphire  gates, 
When  angels  from  the  looms  of  Aidenn 
With  woof  of  pearl  and  diamond  laden 
Shall  garnish  him,  to  stand,  the  white 
Pure  prophet  of  the  winter  night, 

To  talk  with  stars  and  tell  their  fates! 

Such  are  the  kings  of  men,  the  strong 
Who  triumph  over  chance  and  wrong 
And  in  adversity's  December, 
When  friendship  smoulders  in  the  ember, 
Still  wear  true  manhood's  fadeless  crown, 
And  wait  till  God  sends  shining  down 
The  recompense  deferred  so  long! 


THE  MYSTIC  RIVER 

To  Blanche 

A  happy  maiden,  pure  and  fair, 
With  fresh  wild  flowers  in  thy  hair, 

Thou  standest,  wistful,  dreaming; 
For  lo,  the  river  thou  hast  sought 
In  rambles  sweet  with  budding  thought, 

Before  thee  now  is  gleaming! 

Its  rhythmic  waves  upon  the  beach 
In  low,  melodious  silv'ry  speech 
Repeat  their  mystic  greeting; 
62 


With  mellow  murmurs,  o'er  and  o'er, 
They  chant  of  glad  days  gone  before 
And  visions,  fair  and  fleeting. 

This  is  the  river  of  the  years, 

Dimpled  with  joys  and  dimmed  with  tears, 

To  which  thy  youth  was  speeding, 
Whose  far-off  music  thou  hast  heard 
When  sunset's  last,  low-nestling  bird, 

Has  hushed  his  tender  pleading. 

Here  waits  thee,  Blanche,  a  slender  sloop 
Where  rare  gold-dusted  lilies  droop 

And  gleaming  reeds  are  sighing; 
Its  snowy  sail  will  soon  be  spread 
Above  thee,  joyous,  garlanded, 

And  with  the  winds  be  flying. 

But  ere  thy  trembling  bark  takes  flight, 
Pluck  from  the  reeds  a  lotus  white 

Thy  young  days  to  remember; — 
A  chaliced  vow,  a  fragrant  pray'r 
To  comfort  thee  when  life's  despair 

Is  bleaker  than  December. 

The  blue  waves  flash  with  morning  beams 
And,  far  and  faint,  rose-tinted  dreams 

O'er  isles  of  magic  hover; 
And  somewhere,  by  his  castle  gate, 
Like  thee,  a  questioner  of  fate, 

Delays  thy  restless  lover. 


Adieu !  adieu !   A  last  good-by, 
<lhe  myrtle  groves  of  girlhood  sigh 

From  shores  adream  with  beauty; 
Sprent  with  the  beams  of  grace  divine 
The  crown  of  womanhood  is  thine, 

And  every  pledge  of  duty. 

The  rose-bud  in  its  calyx  green, 
Its  folded  loveliness  unseen, 

The  summer  fairies  cherish; 
But  danger  haunts  the  full-blown  rose, 
With  ev'ry  wooing  wind  that  blows 

Its  perfumes  waste  and  perish. 

Sail  forth,  sail  out,  sail  proudly  on 
By  cliffs  of  twilight,  capes  of  dawn, 

Still  to  the  true  course  cleaving — 
Shadow  and  sunlight  on  thy  sail 
As  shifting  fortunes  flush  and  fail, 

Thy  own  life-myst'ry  weaving. 

Thy  world  is  now  all  light  and  love, 
Blue  waves  beneath,  blue  skies  above, 

But  waves  and  skies  may  darken; 
O'er  faithless  isles  of  song  and  bloom 
Bright  shapes  will  beckon  thee  to  doom, 

If  once  thou  pause  and  hearken. 


64 


Christmas  Chimes 


THE  EVE  OF  CHRIST 

Again  do  the  sunset  shadows  wteave 
The  tapestries  of  a  hallowed  eve, 
And  to  all  the  myriad  tribes  of  men 
Is  the  Syrian  legend  told  again. 

Listen,  O  children !  you  can  hear, 
This  night  of  all  nights  of  the  year, 
The  sea  forgetting  life's  woe  and  wrong 
And  singing  a  mystic  cradle  song. 

Look  aloft !   And  on  night's  temple  scrolled 
You  may  read  the  lyric,  in  astral  gold, 
The  stars  once  sang  when  shepherds  pale 
Beheld  the  wonder  in  Jordan's  vale. 

To-night,  of  all  nights  of  the  year, 
Should  parental  love  be  warm  and  near, 
And  to-night  should  little  children  know 
How  childhood  was  honored  long  ago. 

For  we  who,  with  worn,  way-weary  feet, 
Have  journeyed  the  morning  star  to  greet, 
Have  learned  full  many  a  care  to  leave 
Hard  by  the  gates  of  Christmas  Eve. 
67 


Lake  the  Magi,  over  the  desert  space 
We  are  seeking  the  chosen  altar  place, 
Blest  in  our  pilgrim  robes  to  stand 
Under  the  star — in  Holy  Land! 

Giver  of  all  things,  grant  that  we, 
Who  can  bring  no  gifts  to  hearth  or  tree, 
May  give  to  the  world  good  will  at  least, 
And  in  spirit  share  our  brother's  feast. 

May  we  with  all  patience  work  and  wait, 
Though  our  guerdons  seem  to  lingier  late, 
And  then,  at  the  last,  not  wholly  fall 
Should  they  ne'er  come  to  us  at  all. 

Yet  this  is  no  time  for  sombre  thought, 
Rememb'ring  the  grace  to  sorrow  brought, 
But  of  ringing  laughter,  rosy  glee, 
The  nuptials  of  time  and  eternity. 

Howe'er  they  change  our  land  and  laws, 
Oh  still  let  us  greet  gray  Santa  Claus, 
Glad  patron  saint  of  our  girls  and  boys 
And  a  world  of  mingling  merry  noise! 

May  even  the  humblest  cottage  roofs 

Be  struck  to-night  by  his  reindeer's  hoofs, 

And  the  cheery  driver  find  his  own 

By  the  way  the  chimney  smoke  has  flown. 


Should  the  children  wake  and  hear  the  sea, 
So  close  to  our  homes  that  happy  be, 
They  will  know  that  all  the  blest  night  long 
It  is  singing  a  mystic  cradle  song. 


THE  CHRIST  STAR 

The  night  is  near,  and  the  twilight  falls 
In  bannered  gloom  from  the  sapphire  walls; 
A  crape  of  shadow  is  looped  and  hung 
From  star  to  star,  and  the  moon1  is  swung, 
A  funeral  lamp,  from  east  to  west, 
To  hallow  the  earth's  hibernal  rest. 
The  gates  that  ushered  the  dappled  hours 
Of  song  and  sheen,  and  a  thousand  flowers, 
Are  closed  and  crossed  by  the  bars  of  cloud 
That  Winter  shapes  on  his  anvil  loud; 
And  lo !  with  spears  in  the  battle-smoke 
Tossed  wild,  and  arms  that  the  storm  invoke, 
The  bare  trees  stand  in  the  trailing  mists, 
Like  plumeless  knights  in  the  tourney  lists. 
The  fields  that  rolled  in  a  surf  of  gold 
Are  bleak  and  drear  as  the  churchyard  mould ; 
The  peaks  that  glistened,  the  hjills  that  swept 
In  waves  of  blossom,  and  brightly  crept 
Away  and  down  to  the  vales  of  green 
That  slept  in  beautiful  peace  between, 
Are  as  sere  and  dark  as  the  faded  page 
Of  some  sweet  tale  of  the  golden  age. 
With  waves  that  toss  like  a  dreamer's  arms, 


A  river,  dark  with  its  cloud  of  storms, 
Flows  here,  and  chants  in  an  undertone 
Of  life  all  weary,  and  wild  and  lone ! 
A  pale  leaf  stirs,  with  a  rustling  sigh, 
"  I  tarry  late,  but  my  rest  is  nigh ! " 
And,  still  and  gray,  like  a  living  sign 
Of  hopelessness,  on  yon  blasted  pine 
A  lonely  eagle  looks  forth  and  far 
On  waste  and  woe,  and  blight  and  scar. 
Yet  Earth  will  rise,  and  her  wintry  face, 
So  swept  by  storms  and  the  spoiler's  trace, 
Will  blush  and  beam  with  a  joy  like  wine 
At  Spring's  return,  and  the  seas  will  shine 
Beneath  the  sky,  in  the  glowing  calms, 
And  kiss  the  sun  from  their  silver  palms! 
And  Day  will  come,  in  his  crown  of  gold, 
With  rosy  dawn  on  his  banner's  fold; 
While  mystic  Night  will  be  sailing  soon 
In  sweet  pursuit,  with  his  crescent  moon 
Bent  like  a  glimmering  sheet  of  light, 
Through  star-set  seas  that  are  blossom  bright ; 
The  sheeted  hills  will  awake  again ; 
The  brook  will  laugh  as  it  leaves  the  glen 
To  chase  the  birds,  and  to  pray  and  plead 
For  a  lily's  kiss  in  the  clover  mead; 
The  dimpling  river  will  loiter  long 
By  banks  of  roses  and  groves  of  song, 
And  in  and  out,  with  her  crystal  feet 
Agleam  in  many  a  green  retreat, 
Will  taunt  old  ocean,  and  sing  and  say, 
"  I  come,  I  come ;  "  and  yet  still  delay. 
70 


[But  what  of  us,  and  the  loved  of  ours — 

The  hopes  that  fell  with  the  leaves  and  flowers? 

O  History,  is  thy  tongue  but  dust — 

Thy  tomes  but  graves,  and  thy  pen  but  rust? 

In  all  the  heaps  of  the  ashen  past, 

Is  there  no  jewel  of  hope  at  last? 

On  graven  column  and  pictured  tomb, 

Is  there  no  sign  that  will  light  the  gloom? 

O  Science!    Thou  that  has  borne  the  torch 

From  world  to  world,  and  within  the  porch 

Of  God's  arcana,  'tis  surely  thine 

To  teach  of  heaven  and  grace  divine — 

In  all  thy  flowery  walks  above, 

Hast  thou  not  gathered  one  spray  of  love — 

The  angel  face  of  one  immortelle 

That  says,  "Toil  on,  for  the  rest  is  well"? 

O,  stony  lips  of  our  mother  earth, 

All  sealed  with  pain  since  the  years  had  birth, 

Have  ye  no  story  but  that  sad  page 

Of  death  and  terror  from  age  to  age? 

Shall  years  renew,  and  the  seasons  chase 

In  cloud  and  sunshine  o'er  Nature's  face, 

Yet  only  we,  with  a  world  at  stake, 

Lie  down,  and  slumber,  and  never  wake? 

A  silence  falls,  for  the  echoing  wail 
Of  hearts  despairing  begins  to  fail; 
When  lo !  a  rift  in  the  clouds  is  made, 
And  white,  like  a  warning  finger  laid 
Across  the  murmurous  lips  of  Night, 
Shines  down  a  glimmering  track  of  light! 
71 


The  mists  are  parted,  and  hark!  behold, 
A  star  leans  out  with  a  brow  of  gold ! 
While  bright  and  fair  as  a  falling  beam, 
And  sweet  as  an  angel's  earthward  dream, 
The  voice  that  fell  upon  Galilee, 
Sounds  yet  again  over  land  and  sea, 
"  The   Saviour  liveth ;    come,  follow  me ! " 
And  thus  renewing  our  souls'  reprieve 
From  Christ,  the  Star  of  our  Christmas  eve, 
We  kiss  the  ray,  as  they  kissed  the  hem 
Of  his  white  mantle  in  Bethlehem, 
And  live  again,  and  will  doubt  no  more, 
Though  life  grow  dark  and  its  burdens  sore. 


TO-NIGHT 

Dec.  24,  1877 

When  the  stars  gather  in  beauty,  to-night, 

Glorious,  love-litten — a  heaven  in  bloom — 
Somewhere,  astray,  in  a  sorrowful  plight, 

Earth  will  be  dreamily  toiling  towards  doom; 
And  the  myriads  at  rest 
On  her  storm-stricken  breast, 

Rocked  into  dreams,  will  be  never  afraid 
Tho'  stars  marching  over  and  stars  streaming  under, 
Filling  the  deep  with  a  pageant  of  wonder, 

Guard  and  attend  her  with  godlike  parade. 

Whien  the  stars  gather  in  splendor  to-night, 
Darkness,  O  Planet,  will  cover  thy  face — 


Death-ridden  darkness,  in  shapes  that  affright, 
Black  with  the  curses  that  blacken  our  race! 
And  the  mist,  like  the  ghost 
Of  a  hope  that  is  lost, 

Strangely  will  hover  o'er  fields  that  are  bare; 
And  the  seas,  at  whose  heart  the  old  sorrow  is  throb- 
bing 

Restless  and  hopeless,  eternally  sobbing — 
Madly  will  kneel  in  a  tempest  of  prayer. 

When  the  stars  gather  in  armor,  to-night, 

Planet  of  wailing,  thy  fate  shall  be  read! 
Steal  like  a  nun  under  scourge  from  their  sight, 

Gather  thy  sorrows,  like  robes,  to  thy  head! 
For  the  vestal  white  rose 
Of  the  crystalline  snows 

Coldly  has  sealed  thee  to  silence  unblessed ; 
And  the  red  rose  is  dead  in  thy  gardens  of  pleasure — 
Forests,  like  princes  bereft  of  all  treasure, 

Rise  and  upbraid  thee,  a  skeleton  jest! 

When  the  stars  gather  in  vengeance,  to-night, 

Gibbering  history,  too,  will  arise, 
Rustling  her  garments  of  mildew  and  blight, 

Only  to  curse  thee,  O  mother  of  lies ! 
With  thy  goblet  all  drained, 
And  thy  wanton  lip  stained — 

Singing  wild  songs  where  all  ruin  appears — 
What  shalt  thou  say  of  this  dust  that  was  glory, 
Dust  that  beseeches  thee  still  with  a  story, 

Deep  in  whose  silence  are  rivers  of  tears? 

73 


When  the  stars  gather  in  triumph,  to-night, 

Raining  their  joy  thro'  the  chill  and  the  gloom, 
Only  one  jewel,  an  emblem  of  light, 

Marvelous  planet,  thy  crest  shall  illume! 
It  was  Calvary's  first, 
And  its  white  lustre  burst 
Wide  and  resplendent,  a  dawn  and  a  day ! 
Clasp  it  and  keep  it,  O  princeland  of  Heaven, 
The    deep-bosomed    worlds    for    that    signal    have 

striven — 
^Eons  of  wrong  shall  not  wrest  it  away ! 

When  the  stars  gather  in  chorus,  to-night, 

Singing  the  lullaby  song  of  our  Lord, 
Childhood  shall  come  to  us,  dimpled  and  bright, 
Kissed  by  His  promise,  and  fed  by  His  word; 
And  our  fears  shall  depart, 
And  our  anguish  of  heart, 

Rending  us  darkly  the  lengthy  years  through! 
And  the  dust   of  the  perished  shall  blossom,  and 

beauty 
Garland  the  lowliest  pathway  of  duty, 

Rich  with  the  hopes  that  our  spirits  renew. 


THE  MATCHLESS  STORY 

The  tender  and  olden  dream  of  Eve 
Descends  on  the  Orient  world, 

And  the  purple  shadows  the  angels  weave 
In  Hinnom  are  softly  furled ; 

74 


The  day,  in  his  kingliest  diadem, 
Kneels  low  at  the  Hebron  gate — 

Good-night!    O  widowed  Jerusalem, 
Thou  wasted,  desolate! 

Good-night !   But  a  crown  of  sunset  bloom 

Is  wreathed  upon  Olivet, 
And  trailing  lances  of  flame  illume 

Dear  Zion  with  splendor  yet. 
How  linger  the  steps  of  parting  day ! 

Is  Ajalon  crimson  still, 
And  Joshua's  sword  like  a  beam  astray, 

Performing  Jehovah's  will? 

Ah,  no!   As  a  groom,  all  loth  to  part 

From  his  loved  on  the  bridal  eve, 
Will  fold  her  again  to  his  captive  heart, 

A  joy  he  can  scarce  believe; 
The  golden  trance  of  the  lingering  ray 

(O  calmly  it  fell  of  yore!) 
Caresses  thQ  earth  in  fond  delay 

Of  the  rapture  that  lies  before. 

The  pageant  has  passed — a  sombre  shade 

Is  wrought  in  the  woof  of  air; 
The  arisen  stars  aside  have  laid 

Their  mantles  of  sable  rare; 
And  silence,  and  wonder,  and  beauty  hold 

The  land  with  a  solemn  spell, 
Which,  wearing  the  curse  the  prophets  told, 

Waits  promised  joys  as  well. 
75 


While  Dian,  in  Attic  beauty  sweet, 

Now  chastely  pursues  her  way, 
Ah,  little  she  dreams  her  silvery  feet 

Are  nearing  a  swift  dismay ; 
For,  ever,  on  this  memorial  night 

The  Athenian  gods  are  slain, 
And  Pallas,  with  helm  and  aegis  dight, 

Is  struck  from  her  ancient  reign. 

"  To-morrow !  to-morrow !  "  Jordan  sings 

All  down  the  historic  vale, 
And  back  from  the  empty  tombs  of  kings 

Is  echoed  the  mystic  wail. 
All  shorn  of  the  palm  and  olive — how, 

Judea,  thy  hope  has  fled! — 
To-morrow?     And  then — to  lie  as  now, 

A  dead  land  clasping  the  dead ! 

But    ere  the  morrow  dawned  in  woe 

The  night  of  aU  joy  befell, 
And  palms  clustered  green,  and  Kedron's  flow 

Was  bright  in  its  rocky  dell; 
The  shepherds  that  watched  their  flocks  by  night — 

In  truth,  they  were  simple  folk — 
Were  lounging  at  ease  in  the  soft  moonlight 

When  the  voice  out  of  heaven  spoke. 

Perhaps  they  were  saying  idle  things, 

Or  chattering,  as  rustics  will, 
Of  their  daily  life — the  toil  that  brings 

The  needful  food  young  mouths  to  fill; 

76 


Perhaps,  in  a  dreamy,  broken  way, 
They  spoke  of  their  heart's  desire, 

And  gazed  o'er  the  moonlit  hills  away, 
And  wished  that  their  lots  were  higher. 

Perhaps — but  the  sudden  voice  has  hushed 

The  murmur  of  ev'ry  tongue; 
And  some  may  have  seen  a  wing  that  rushed, 

While  one  to  his  feet  has  sprung — 
Coarse-clad  in  the  garb  of  his  simple  life, 

O  wisest  of  all  was  he — 
And  stayed  not  for  words  of  doubt  or  strife, 

But  said :  "  Let  us  go  and  see." 

They  went,  and  the  meek-eyed  mother  found, 

Still  nursing  the  new-born  child; 
And  there,  with  the  homely  kine  around, 

The  Saviour  upon  them  smiled! 
For  thus,  to  the  palace,  hut,  or  stall, 

And  down  to  the  humblest  kind, 
'Twas  said  that  Messiah  came  to  all — 

That  they  who  wiU  shall  find. 

Now,  well  may  the  choral  stars  that  kept 

Their  watch  o'er  the  shepherd's  fold, 
Low  lulling  the  whispered  joy  that  swept 

The  chords  of  their  harps  of  gold, 
Break  forth  with  the  matchless  song  that  rang 

Adown  through  the  crystal  spheres, 
When  the  morning  stars  together  sang 

At  the  birth  of  sunlit  years ! 
77 


A  diviner  light  than  ever  wove 

Its  scarf  in  the  summer  rain 
Is  come,  on  the  healing  wings  of  love, 

To  banish  a  night  of  pain; 
The  cruel  edge  of  the  broken  law 

Has  drunk  other  blood  than  ours, 
And  peace  and  forgiveness  softly  draw 

Around  it  celestial  flowers. 

And  oh,  it  is  not,  sad  Palestine, 

For  scenes  of  thy  tragic  days, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  and  the  battle  sheen, 

We  cherish  thy  mournful  ways ; 
'Tis  not  for  the  footprints,  dim  and  grand, 

Of  Israel's  scattered  race, 
We  toil  o'er  the  seas  awhile  to  stand 

And  weep  in  thy  sacred  place. 

Not  Acre  and,  oh,  not  Ascalon 

Do  beckon  our  steps  apart; 
Nor  name  that  romance  lies  bright  upon, 

Lorraine  or  the  Lion-Heart; — 
But  we  follow  our  Lord  to  Galilee, 

Bethesda  and  still  Siloam — 
O'er  the  foot-worn  path  to  Bethany 

To  Mary's  and  Martha's  home! 


78 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 

The  night,  in  a  wreath  and  scarf  of  stars, 
Bends  fair,  on  this  Christmas  eve, 

O'er  a  world  grown  old  in  loves  and  wars 
Where  the  fates  our  fortunes  weave; 

And  our  joys  and  woes,  as  we  vigil  keep 

On  the  templed  shore  and  misted  deep, 
Are  wrought  in  the  finished  web  we  leave. 

The  earth  is  as  sad  and  sweet  as  then 
When  the  shepherds  watched  by  night, 

And  over  the  Orient  vale  and  glen 
Was  sprinkled  the  chalked  light 

Of  the  stars,  like  lotus  flowers  abloom 

On  the  Syrian  sky's  empurpled  gloom, 
As  the  waters  rippled  soft  delight. 

In  tones  subdued  the  tale  went  round, 
Maybe  of  their  loves  and  dreams, 

As  we  to-night,  in  thought  profound, 
Are  binding  the  scattered  gleams 

Of  past  and  present  in  golden  sheaves — 

The   gleanings   of  many   Christmas   eves, 
In  the  paths  that  led  by  happy  streams. 

Again  is  the  sacred  story  told 

Of  the  wonder  that  befell, 
Which  the  world,  though  sadly  wan  and  old, 

In  its  heart  has  cherished  well ; 
79 


While  the  night  is  the  night  of  nights  for  youth, 
Aglow  in  its  beauty,  love  and  truth, 

Since  the  Virgin-born  came  with  men  to  dwell. 

We  have  fought  and  conquered  and  knowledge 
gained 

In  myriad  mazy  ways, 
But  the  light  the  stars  of  Syria  rained 

On  the  shepherds  round  us  plays; 
And  when,  with  the  new  creeds  bowed,  we  grope 
And  lift  our  brows  for  a  gleam  of  hope, 

We  are  crowned  again  with  its  ling'ring  rays. 

The  rosy  and  tender,  smiling  Child 

Was  the  bloom  of  a  warmer  faith 
Than  any  that  e'er  our  dreams  beguiled 

With  a  dim  and  fleeting  wraith ; 
While  we  still  return  to  the  footworn  way, 
And  the  strangest  night  and  dearest  day 

Between  life's  mystical  dawn  and  death. 

What  myst'ry,  then,  that  on  Christmas  eve 
The  kingdom  of  childhood  blooms, 

And  the  weary  heart  forgets  to  grieve 
Or  linger  at  phantom  tombs; 

For  the  sable  wings  of  fear  are  furled, 

And  love  and  laughter  over  the  world 

Are  lightly  chasing  its  chills  and  glooms. 

And  so,  brow-swept  by  tress  and  curl, 
Be  the  dreaming  children  blest, 
80 


While  the  earth  with  diamond  floss  and  pearl 

Is  in  bridal  splendor  dressed — 
For  to  them  and  us  will  come  the  morn 
When  the  olden  hope,  in  faith  reborn, 
Is  by  the  smile  of  the  Christ  caressed. 


THE  DEATHLESS  LEGEND 

The  feet  that  the  sweet-browed  Mary  laved 

And,  bending  so  meekly  low, 
With  her  cool,  dark  tresses,  softly  waved, 

Caressed  in  the  long  ago, 
Again  make  beautiful  the  world 

With  the  radiant  tread  of  love; 
And  over  banners,  tossed  and  curled, 

There  broodeth  the  mystic  dove. 

Thougn  the  storm  of  strife  roll  loud  and  high, 

And  Woe  be  our  lingering  guest, 
While  the  winds  the  tremulous  story  sigh, 

Our  lives  are  not  all  unblest; 
Let  us  still  believe  the  magic  tale 

The  wondering  shepherds  told, 
And  we'll  smile  serene  at  War's  stern  mail, 

And  sepulchres  lone  and  cold. 

As  the  tired  child,  sleeping,  clasps  its  toy, 

dose,  close  to  its  pulsing  breast, 
We,  too,  aweary  of  pain  and  joy, 

With  our  legend  fain  would  rest; 
<)  81 


For  what  are  we,  on  this  bridge  of  life, 
Aquiver  o'er  dark,  strange  seas, 

But  the  children  of  mystery,  born  to  strife, 
With  Death  in  our  red  wine's  lees! 

So  tell  us  the  story  that  erst -was  told 
Under  shimmering  Syrian  stars ; 

Tell  it  ere  science,  bleak  and  bold, 
Its  elysian  promise  mars ; 

For  lo,  we  are  waiting  and  Christ  awakes 
In  the  manger  of  Galilee, 

And  a  glory  brighter  than  morning  breaks 
wastes  of  shore  and  sea ! 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

Crowned  with  December's  wreath  of  cloud, 
The  last  wave  of  the  weary  year 

Breaks  where  the  sea-crags,  sable-browed, 
Gazing  on  Time's  waste  waters  drear 

With  sphinx-like  sadness,  catch  the  moan 

Of  life's  remorseless  undertone, 

And  watch  and  wait,  serene,  austere. 

For  these  are  misted  crags  that  keep 
The  gateway  to  that  other  sea, 

Whither  the  years  in  long  waves  sweep 
To  shoreless,  gray  Eternity ; 

And  still,  with  runic  script  and  scar, 

And  warders  of  the  moaning  bar, 

In  whose  white  strife  the  bond  wax  free. 


And  now  that  bursting  wave  has  flung 

The  mimic  of  its  dying  wail — 
Sweeter  than  anthem  ever  sung 

When  heads  were  bowed  and  lips  were  pale — 
Backward  across  the  hearts  that  weave, 
With  song  and  prayer,  this  New  Year's  Eve, 

The  memories  of  life's  green  vale. 

Touched  by  the  memory  of  years, 

And  swept  by  wreathing  clouds  of  spray, 

How  beautiful  the  past  appears, 

How  gently  curves  the  mountain  way 

We  thought  so  rough  when  tempests  beat 

And  trumpet  never  called  retreat 
Or  changed  the  battle's  dark  array ! 

There  lies  the  desert,  desert  still, 
But,  green  by  every  track  we  made 

At  Duty's  stern  command  and  will, 
A  laurel  springs  with  fragrant  shade, 

And  on  the  place  of  Faith's  dark  scenes 

A  red  rose  on  a  lily  leans, 

And  flow'rets  mingle*  braid  and  braid. 

There  gleams  the  spring  we  did  not  see, 

A  golden  cup  beside  it  hung, 
Fair  type  of  the  good  gifts  and  free 

We  often  blindly  strayed  among; 
And  where  we  sowed  and  never  reaped 
The  tasselled,  yellow  sheaves  are  heaped 

And  "  Harvest  Home  "  is  blithely  sung. 
83 


The  forms  and  faces  we  recall 
Are  lit  by  some  supernal  gleam, 

For  angels  stand  behind  them  all, 

Their  better  natures  still  supreme — 

And  out  of  hyacinthian  eyes 

Mildly  repose  our  dull  surprise 

That  things  may  not  be  what  they  seem. 


MZLUARIUM  AUREUM 

A  Poem  of  the  Parting  Year 

The  crystalled  petals  of  roseal  hours 

The  remembered  earth  relume, 
While  the  world  is  white  with  angel  flowers 

And  garlands  of  bridal  bloom; 
For  the  year  is  mouldering  in  ash  and  ember, 
And  the  wild,  wan  face  of  the  drear  December 

Is  white  with  a  sombre  doom. 

As  sunset  and  dawn,  twin  chaplets,  meetly 

Garnish  the  golden  day, 
And  the  brow  of  age  is  clustered  sweetly 

With  the  blossom  of  long-lost   May — 
The  stars  still  shake  from  their  curling  tresses 
The  floral  snow  that  divinely  dresses 

The  Kingdoms  that  pass  away. 

The  grand  old  monarchs  in  cloister  quiet 
Forsook  the  realms  they  won; 
84 


Thus,  too,  the  year,  at  the  welcome  fiat, 

Goes  forth  discrowned  and  lone 
In  the  solemn  night,  as  so  hereafter 
The  years  will  follow,  with  moan  or  laughter, 
Till  all  is  over  and  done. 


Again,  it  may  be  no  more  forever, — 

Let  us  crown  the  parting  year, 
And  wait  and  watch,  the  stroke  dissever 

The  guest  that  must  leave  us  here. 
We   too   may  part  in  the  glad  time  coming 
When  the  roses  bloom  and  the  bees. are  humming, 

Or  the  grapes  are  flushed  with  cheer. 

Slowly  around  the  mystic  dial 

Are  swept  the  silver  spears, — 
Slowly  and  sure,  with  God's  espial, 

Each  fateful  crisis  nears; 
And  the  pendulum,  serene  and  subtle, 
Is  weaving  fate  with  its  rhythmic  shuttle 

In  a  woof  of  hopes  and  fears. 


But  the  web  of  life  is  warm  and  glowing, 

A  regal  cloth  of  gold, 
With  a  living  lustre,  full  and  flowing 

In  many  a  starry  fold, 
That  will  burn  away  the  stain  of  sorrow, 
As  the  cloudy  day  by  the  cheery  morrow 

In  sapphire  bloom  unrolled. 
8* 


When  the  leaves  of  time  are  dim  and  yellow 

We  prize  their  fading  lore, 
While  the  fruits  of  love  are  golden  mellow, 

That  shine  on  the  backward  shore; 
But  the  world  is  rich,  and  the  Lord  is  gracious, 
And  the  castled  realms  are  bright  and  spacious 

That  lift  and  spread  before. 

There  is  no  dead  past — its  dead  are  risen; 

We  guard  their  empty  urns, 
But  the  winged  spark  has  left  its  prison, 

And  soars  and  sings  and  burns ; 
E'en  the  mould  of  death  but  awhile  reposes 
To  burst  in  a  song  of  bridal  roses 

As  the  regnant  flame  returns. 

Of  threaded  pearls  the  past  is  woven—- 
The central  orb's  attire — 

And  its  misty  deeds  and  dreams  are  cloven 
To  kiss  in  crimson  fire; 

O'er  buds  that  bourgeon  and  seas  that  quiver, 

The  refrain  of  love  delays  forever 
As  the  flowing  moons  expire. 

The  Hellenic  march  has  never  ended; — 

Upon  the  Attic  plain 
The  violet's  crown  that  time  has  rended 

Garlands  each  classic  fane; 
And  the  god-like  art  of  its  glowing  marbles 
Is  a  light  that  shines   and  a  song  that  warbles, 

On  every  land  and  main. 
86 


Again  and  again  the  curtain  rises, 

And  music  wings  the  hour, 
As  the  old,  old  story,  in  sweet  disguises, 

Is  wrought  with  subtle  power — 
Till  joy  and  sorrow,  in  life's  long  mazes, 
Are  wed  again,  and  their  lifted  faces 

Blossom  in  seraph  flower. 

In  the  closing  scene  the  plot  unravels, 

And  the  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 
And  the  friend  and  the  foe,  and  the  fool  that  cavils, 

Before  the  footlights  stand; 
And  we  know,  at  last,  how  truth  dissembles, 
But  is  ever  the  silver  thread  that  trembles, 

At  the  touch  of  a  magic  wand. 

And  the  old  year  thus,  in  his  dust  and  ashes, 

Is  kingly  and  potent  still, — 
His  approval  shines,  and  his  menace  flashes 

From  many  a  templed  hill. 
If  it  be  with  tears  that  are  bitter,  real, 
We  must  cleanse  the  brow  of  his  pure  ideal 

And  keep  his  worship  still. 

Adieu!    For  the  banded  stars  are  singing 

A  coronation  hymn, 
While  the  pearly  rose  of  dawn  is  springing 

Eastward,  and  night  is  dim; 
The  gates  are  open,  O   pilgrim  brother ! 
And  the  year  is  thine, — perhaps  no  other 

Thy  cherished  hopes  shall  brim. 
87 


Take  down  the  wreaths  that  idly  wither 

In  Time's  imperial  hall, 
For  the  jewelled  court  is  swarming  hither 

While  life  is  all  in  all; 
Put  on  thy  robes,  and  tread  the  measure, 
And  the  angels  of  all  past  hopes  and  pleasure 

Attend  thy  needful  calL 


Historical  ^  Narrative  Poems 


THE  CAMPFIRES  OF  THE  PIONEERS 

Vincere  est  vivere! 

Striking  at  ease  his  epic  lyre, 
The  laurelled  Mantuan  has  sung 
Beleaguered  Troy's  illustrious  pyre — 
The  daring  sail  JEneas  flung 
To  wayward  gales,  the  voyage  long 
That  tracked  the  silver  waves  of  song 
Until  the  worn  and  weary  oar 
Has  kissed  the  far  Lavinian  shore; 
The  Argo's  classic  pennon  streams 
Along  a  fairer  sea  of  dreams, 
The  Mayflower  now  has  furled  her  wings, 
And  restfully  at  anchor  swings — 
Columbia  chants  to  columned  seas 
The  triumph  of  the  Genoese — 
And  yet,  stout  hearts,  no  fitting  meed 
Of  panegyric  crowns  your  deed, 
From  which  a  stately  empire  springs. 
The  minions  of  a  perfumed  age 
Already  crowd  upon  the  stage, — 
The  massive  manhood  of  the  past 
In  many  a  graceful  mould  is  cast; 
And  yet  with  calm  and  kindly  eyes 
You  view  the  feast  for  others  spread, 

91 


And  hail  the  blue  benignant  skies 
Resigned  and  grandly  comforted. 
It  was  for  this  you  broke  the  way 
Before  the  sunset  gates  of  Day — 
For  this,  with  God-like  faith  endued, 
You  scaled  the  mystic  crags  of  Fate, 
And  with  resounding  labors  hewed 
The  Doric  pillars  of  the  state. 


There  is  no  task  for  you  to  d< 

Your  tents  are  furled,  the  bugle  blown — 

But  yet  another  day,  and  you 

Will  live  in  clustered  fame  alone. 

The  fir  will  chant  a  song  of  rue, 

The  pine  will  drop  a  wreath,  maybe, 

And  o'er  the  dim  Cascades  the  stars 

Will  nightly  roll  their  gleaming  cars 

You  followed  well  from  sea  to  sea. 

Before  your  scarred  battalions  wheel 

Into  the  mystic  realm  of  shade, 

And  on  your  grizzled  brows  the  seal 

Of  mystery  is  softly  laid, 

Once  more  around  your  old  campfires, 

That  smoulder  like  fulfilled  desires, 

Rehearse  the  story  of  your  toil — 

Set  forth  the  hero  crowned  witht  spoil — 

The  glimmer  of  triumphant  steel, 

Beneath  the  garland  and  the  braid. 

O  further  than  the  legiona  bora 
The  eagle*  of  imperial  Rome, 

M 


Three  thousand  miles,  a  weary  march, 
You  followed  Hesper's  golden  torch, 
Until  it  stooped  on  this  green  shore 
And  lit  the  rosy  fires  of  home. 
The  sad  and  solemn  morn  you  turned 
And  quenched  the  sacred  flames  that  burned 
On  hearths  endeared  for  years  and  years; 
It  seemed  your  very  souls  grew  dark 
With  those  sweet  fires,  the  latest  spark 
Was  drowned  in  bitter,  bitter  tears. 
A  softer,  sweeter  sunlight  wrapt 
The  forms  of  all  familiar  things, 
And  as  each  chord  of  feeling  snapped 
Another  angel  furled  its  wings: 
The  lights  and  shadows  in  the  lane, 
The  oak  beside  the  foot-worn  stile, 
Whose  wheeling  shade  a  weary  while 
Had  told  the  hours  of  joy  and  pain — 
The  vine  that  clambered  o'er  the  door 
And  many  a  purple  cluster  bore — 
The  vestal  flowers  of  household  love — 
The  sloping  roof  that  wore  the  stain 
Of  summer  sun  and  winter  rain, 
And  smoky  chimney  tops  above — 
The  beauty  of  the  orchard  trees, 
Bedecked  with  blossoms,  glad  with  bees — 
The  brook  that  all  the  livelong  day 
Had  many  things  to  sing  and  say — 
All  these  upon  your  vision  dwell 
And  weave  the  iorrow  of  farewell. 

N 


And  now  the  last  good-bye  is  said — 
Good-bye!  the  living  and  the  dead 
In  those  sad  words  together  speak, 
And  all  the  chosen  ways  are  bleak! 

Forward!     The  cracking  lashes  send 
A  thrill  of  action  down  the  train, 
Their  brawny  necks  the  oxen  bend 
With  creaking  yoke  and  clanking  chain; 
The  horsemen  gallop  down  the  line, 
And  swerve  around  the  lowing  kine 
That  straggle  loosely  on  the  plain, 
And  lift  glad  hands  to  babes  that  laugh, 
And  dash  the  buttercups  like  chaff. 
Hurrah!  the  skies  are  jewel  blue; 
In  softest  green  and  braided  gold 
The  robes  of  April  are  unrolled, 
And  hopes  are  high  and  hearts  are  true! 
Hurrah!  Hurrah!   The  bold,  the  free! 
The  sudden  sweep  of  ecstasy 
That  lifts  the  soul  on  wings  of  fire 
When  fears  consume  and  doubts  expire 
And  life  in  one  swift  torrent  speeds 
To  the  great  tide  of  stirring  deeds. 

And  now  the  sun  is  dropping  down, 
The  lights  and  shadows,  red  and  brown, 
Are  weaving  sunset's  purple  spell: 
The  teams  are  freed,  the  fires  are  made, 
Like  scarlet  night-flow'rs  in  the  shade, 
And  pleasant  groups  before,  between, 

94 


Are  thronging  in  the  fitful  sheen — 
The  day  is  done  and  all  is  well. 

So  pass  the  days,  so  fall  the  nights, 

A  banquet  of  renewed  delights — 

The  old  horizons  lift  and  pass 

In  magic  changes  like  a  dream, 

And  in  heaven's  azure  glass 

To-morrow's  jasper  arches  gleam 

With  many  a  vale  and  mountain  mass 

And  many  a  singing,  shining  stream. 

The  past  is  dead  and  daisied  now — 

Its  shadow  fades  from  heart  and  brow- 

The  air  is  incense,  and  the  breeze 

Is  sweet  with  siren  melodies, 

And  all  the  castled  hills  before 

In  blooming  vistas  sweep  and  soar. 

Like  silver  lace  the  clouds  are  strewn 

Along  the  distant,  dreamy  zone; 

It  is  a  happy,  happy  time 

As  wayward  as  a  poet's  rhyme, 

And  ever  as  the  sun  goes  down 

The  West  is  shut  with  rosy  bars, 

When  Night  puts  on  her  ebon  crown 

And  lights  the  watch  fires  of  the  stars. 

A  hundred  nights,  a  hundred  days; 
Nor  folded  cloud  nor  silken  haze 
Mellow  the  sun's  midsummer  blaze. 
Along  the  brown  and  barren  plain 
In  silence  drags  the  wasted  train; 

95 


The  dust  starts  up  beneath  your  tread, 

Like  angry  ashes  of  the  dead, 

To  blind  you  with  a  choking  cloud 

And  wrap  you  in  a  yellow  shroud. 

There  are  no  birds  to  sing  your  joy, 

You  have  no  joy  for  birds  to  sing, — 

A  hundred  fangs  your  hearts  destroy — 

A  thousand  troubles  fret  and  sting. 

The  desert  mocks  you  all  the  while 

With  that  dry  shimmer  of  a  smile 

That  dazzles  on  a  bleaching  skull; — 

The  bloom  is  withered  on  your  cheek, 

You  slowly  move  and  lowly  speak, 

And  every  eye  is  dim  and  dull. 

Alas,  it  is  a  lonesome  land 

Of  bitter  sage  and  barren  sand, 

Under  a  bitter,  barren  sky 

That  never  heard  the  robin  sing, 

Nor  kissed  the  lark's  exultant  wing, 

Nor  breathed  the  rose's  fragrant  sigh! 

A  weary  land— alas!  alas! 

The  shadows  of  the  vultures  pass — 

A  spectral  sign  across  your  path; 

The  gaunt,  gray  wolf,  with  head  askance, 

Throws  back  at  you  a  scowling  glance 

Of  cringing  hate  and  coward  wrath, 

And  like  a  wraith  accursed  and  banned 

Fades  out  before  your  lifted  hand. 

A  dim,  sad  land,  forgot,  forsworn, 

By  all  bright  life  that  may  not  mourn, 

And  crazed  with  glistening  ghost  of  seas 


In  broideries  of  flowers  and  trees, 
And  rivers,  blue  and  cool,  that  seem 
To  ripple  as  in  fevered  dream 
Only  to  taunt  the  thirst  and  fly 
From  withered  lip  and  lurid  eye. 
A  hundred  days,  a  hundred  nights, — 
The  goal  is  further  than  before, 
And  all  the  changing  shades  and  lights 
Are  wrought  in  Fancy's  woof  no  more. 
The  sun  is  weary  overhead, 
And  pallid  deserts  round  you  spread 
A  sorrowful  eternity; 
And  if  some  grizzly  mountains  here 
Confront  your  march  with  forms  of  fear, 
You  turn  aside  and  pass  them  by. 
And  all  are  over-worn — the  flesh 
Is  now  a  frayed  and  faded  mesh 
That  will  not  mask  the  inward  flame; 
There  is  no  longer  any  care 
To  round  the  speech,  or  speak  men  fair, 
Or  any  gentle  sense  of  shame; 
The  hearts  of  all  are  sifted  through — 
The  grain  drops  through  the  windy  husks, 
And  false  lights  flickering  round  the  true 
Are  quenched  at  last  in  dews  and  dusks. 
And  some  are  silent,  some  are  loud, 
And  rage  like  beasts  among  the  crowd, — 
And  some  are  mild,  and  some  are  sharp 
In  word  and  deed,  and  snarl  and  carp, 
And  fret  the  camp  with  petty  broils ; 
While  some  of  temper  sweet  and  bland 
7  97 


Do  seem  to  bear  a  magic  wand 
That  wins  the  secret  of  their  toils — 
Rare  souls  that  waste  like  sandal-wood^ 
In  many  a  fragrant  deed  and  mood; 
And  some  invoke  the  wrath  of  God, 
Or  feign  to  kiss  the  scourging  rod, — 
And  some,  maybe  with  better  prayers, 
Stand  up  in  all  their  griefs  and  cares 
And  clench  their  teeth,  and  do  and  die, 
Without  a  whine,  a  curse  or  cry. 
And  so  the  dust  and  grit  and  stain 
Of  travel  wears  into  the  grain, 
And  so  the  hearts  and  souls  of  men 
Were  darkly  tried  and  tested  then, 
So  that  in  happy  after  years, 
When  rainbows  gild  remembered  tears, 
Should  any  friend  enquire  of  you 
If  such  or  such  an  one  you  knew — 
I  hear  the  answer,  terse  and  grim, 
"  Ah,  yes,  I  crossed  the  plains  with  him ! 

And  lo!  a  moaning  phantom  stands 
To  greet  you  in  the  lonely  lands, 
Among  all  lesser  shadows  dight, 
With  spoils  of  death;  his  meagre  hands 
Salute  you  as  you  pass,  and  claim 
The  sacrifice  that  feeds  his  flame. 
The  march  has  broken  into  flight, 
And  wreck  and  ruins  strew  the  road 
The  flaming  phantom  has  bestowed; 
The  ox  lies  gasping  in  his  yoke, 

96 


Beside  the  wagon  that  he  drew, — 

Where  the  forsaken  campfires  smoke 

To  hopeless  skies  of  tawny  blue; 

And  here  are  straight,  still  mounds  that  mark 

The  flight  of  life's  delusive  spark — 

The  sombre  points  of  pause  that  lie 

So  thick  in  human  destiny. 

And  O,  so  dark  on  this  bleak  page 

Of  drifting  sand  and  dreary  sage! 

The  sultry  levels  of  the  day 

The  night  with  weird  enchantment  fills, 

And  frowning  forests  stretch  away 

Along  the  slopes  of  shadow  hills; 

And  in  the  solemn  stillness  breaks 

The  wild  wolf-music  of  the  plain, 

As  if  a  deeper  sorrow  wakes 

The  dreary  dead  in  that  refrain 

That  swells  and  gathers  like  a  wail 

Of  woe  from  Pluto's  ebon  pale, 

And  sinks  in  pulseless  calm  again. 

A  change  at  last !     An  opal  mist 

Along  the  faint  horizon's  rim 

Is  banked  against  the  amethyst 

Of  summer's  sky, — so  far,  so  dim, 

You  shade  your  eyes  and  gaze  and  gaze 

Until  there  wavers  into  sight 

A  swinging,  swaying  strand  of  white, 

And  then  the  sapphire  walls  and  towers 

That  break  the  light  in  quivering  showers 

And  float  and  fade  in  diamond  haze — 


It  is  the  mountains !     Grand  and  calm 
As  God  upon  his  awful  throne, 
They  build  you  strength  and  breathe  you  balm, 
For  all  their  templed  might  of  stone 
Is  one  eternal  sculptured  psalm! 
And  now  your  western  course  is  led 
Where  grassy  pampas  spread  and  spread, 
The  pastures  of  the  buffalo ; 
And  like  the  sudden  lash  of  foam 
When  tropic  tempests  smite  the  sea, 
And  masts  are  stripped  to  ward  the  blow, 
A  ragged  whirl  of  dust  descried 
Upon  the  prairie's  sloping  side 
Portends  a  storm  as  swift  and  free, — 
And  lo,  the  herds,  they  come!  they  come! 
A  sweeping  thundercloud  of  life 
Loud  as  Niagara,  and  grand 
As  they  who  rode  with  plume  and  brand 
On  Waterloo's  red  slope  of  strife; 
Wild  as  the  rush  of  tidal  waves 
That  roar  among  their  crags  and  caves, 
The  trampling  bison  hurl  along, 
A  black  and  bounding,  fiery  mass 
That  withers,  as  with  flame,  the  grass — 
O!  terrible — ten  thousand  strong! 
Meanwhile  the  dusty  teams  are  stopped, 
The  wagon  tongues  are  deftly  propped, 
And  drivers  by  their  oxen  stand 
And  soothe  them  with  soft  speech  and  hand, 
But,  yet,  with  horn  tossed  free,  and  eyes 
Ablaze  with  purple  depths  of  ire, 

100 


A  thousand  servile  years  expire 

And  flashes  of  old  nature  rise, 

As  if  a  sudden  spirit  woke 

That  would  not  brook  the  chain  and  yoke,- 

And  then,  the  stormy  pageant  passed, 

They  bow  their  calloused  necks  at  last, 

And  with  a  heavy  stride  and  slow 

The  dream  of  liberty  forego. 

Alas  !  it  is  a  land  of  shades 

And  mystic  visions,  swift  alarms; 

The  fretted  spirit  flames  and  fades 

With  changing  calls  to  prayers  or  arms. 

The  day  is  dying,  and  the  sun 
Hangs  like  a  jewel  rich  with  fire 
In  the  deep  West  of  your  desire. 
And  o'er  the  wide  plateau  is  rolled 
A  surge  of  crinkled  sunset  gold, 
Bordered  with  shadows  gray  and  dun, — 
A  horseman,  with  loose  waving  hair, 
Black  as  the  blackness  of  despair, 
Wheels  into  sight  and  gives  you  heed, 
And  on  his  haunches  reins  his  steed, 
All  quivering  like  a  river  reed, 
And  sits  him  like  a  statue  there, 
Transfigured  in  the  sunset  sea — 
A  bronze,  bare  sphinx  of  mystery! 
A  moment  thus,  in  wonder  lost, 
His  eagle  plumes  all  backward  tossed, 
Then  wheels  again,  as  swift  as  wind, 

101 


The  wild  hair  floating  free  behind, 
And  sunset's  crinkled  surges  pour 
Along  an  empty  waste  once  more. 
But  you,  since  that  fantastic  shade 
Across  your  desert  path  has  played, 
Distrust  the  very  ground  you  tread, 
And  shiver  with  a  nameless  dread 
Till  stars  drop  crimson  and  the  sky 
Is  wan  with  heartless  treachery. 

For  many  days  a  form  of  white 
Has  flashed  and  faded  in  your  sight 
In  fleeting  glimpses  as  of  wings ; 
Our  God's  bright  palm  in  beckonings. 
It  is  a  secret  nursed  of  each — 
You  dlare  not  give  the  thought  in  speech, 
So  weirdly  solemn  is  the  sign, 
As  if  upon  the  western  stairs 
The  angel  of  a  thousand  prayers 
Were  come  with  sacned  bread  and  wine. 
Again  the  still,  enchanted  hour 
Of  sunset  burns  in  crimson  flower, 
And  purple-hearted  shadows  sleep 
Like  clustered  pansies,  warm  and  deep. 
Eastward  of  wreathen  crag  and  wall 
The  trail  that  wound  and  wound  all  day 
In  many  a  dark  and  devious  way 
At  last  with  one  swift  curve  ascends 
A  rolling  plain,  that  breaks  and  bends 
Westward,  till  rosy  curtains  fall 

109 


O'er  mountains  massed  and  magical. 
Resplendent  as  a  pearly  tent, 
Upon  the  fir-fringed  battlement, 
Serene  in  sunset  gold  and  rose, 
A  pyramid  of  splendor  glows, 
So  vast  and  calm  and  bright,  your  dream 
Is  dust  and  ashes  in  its  gleam. 
A  maiden  speaks — "  He  led  us  far — • 
It  is  the  golden  western  star !  " 
And  then  a  youth — "  Our  goal  is  won, — 
'Tis  the  pavilion  of  the  sun ! " 
A  gray  sage  then,  in  undertone, 
"  It  must  be  Hood,  so  grand  and  lone — 
The  shining  citadel  and  throne 
Of  Terminus,  that  Roman  god, 
Who  marked  the  line  the  legions  trod, 
And  set  the  limits  of  the  world, 
Where  Caesar's  battle  flags  were  furled! 
O,  for  the  dark-eyed  prophetess 
Who  sang  in  Sinai's  wilderness 
The  gilded  chariots'  overthrow, 
To  lead  for  us  the  cymballed  song 
To  Him,  the  Merciful,  the  Strong, 
Who  dashed  the  brimming  cup  of  woe 
And  was  our  cloud  and  flame  so  long ! " 
Forward!     The  crested  mountains  kneel 
To  patient  toils  of  fire  and  steel — 
A  way  is  hewn,  and  you  emerge 
Upon  the  Cascades'  frozen  verge, 
And  far  beneath  you  and  away 
To  ocean's  shining  fringe  of  foam 

103 


And  summer  veil  of  floating  spray, 

Behold  the  land  of  your  emprise, 

Serene  as  tender  twilight  skies 

When  day  is  swooning  into  gloam ! 

It  is  the  morning  twilight  now 

That  wraps  the  valley's  misted  brow; 

The  bourgeoning  of  blooming  dawn — 

The  reveille  of  Oregon! 

How  brightly  on  your  vision  first 

The  pictured  vales  and  woodlands  burst, — 

The  lakelets  set  like  twinkling  gems 

Along  the  prairie's  pleated  hems, — 

The  silver  brooks  and  rippled  sweeps 

Of  loit'ring  rivers  here  and  there, 

And  many  a  waterfall  that  leaps 

In  rainbow  garlands  through  the  air, — 

The  skirted  maples  and  the  groves 

Of  oak,  the  mild  home-spirit  loves, — 

Enamelled  plains  and  crenelled  hills 

And  tangled  skeins  of  brooks  and  rills, 

Imperial  forest  of  the  fir, 

All  redolent  of  musk  and  myrrh, 

That  fling  and  furl  their  banners  old, 

And  still  their  gloomy  secret  hold 

As  Time  his  cloudy  censer  fills. 

Where  the  foothills  are  wooing  the  meadow 
In  the  dimples  that  dally  and  pass, 
And  the  oak  swings  an  indolent  shadow 
On  the  daisies  that  dial  th!e  grass, — 

104 


In  the  crescents  of  rivers,  in  hollows 

Red-lipped  in  the  strawberry  time, 

And  the  slope  where  the  forest  path  follows 

A  brooklet's  melodious  rhyme, — 

On  the  sun-rippled  knolls  and  the  prairies, 

Beloved  of  the  wandering  kine, 

In  the  skirts  of  the  woodlands  that  fairies 

Embroider  with  rose  and  with  vine, 

There  are  tents,  and  the  smoke  that  is  curling 

Above  in  the  beautiful  dome 

Like  a  guardian  spirit  is  furling 

Soft  wings  o'er  the  temple  of  home. 

And  the  axe  of  the  woodman  is  ringing 
All  day  in  sylvestrian  halls, 
Where  the  chipmunk  is  playfully  springing 
And  the  bluejay  discordantly  calls; 
As  the  red  chips  are  fitfully  flying 
On  the  asters  that  sprinkle  the  moss; 
Where  the  beauty  of  summer  is  dying, 
And  the  sun  lances  glimmer  across; 
There's  a  bird  that  is  spectrally  knocking 
On  a  pine  that  is  withered  and  bare, 
For  the  fir-top  is  trembling  and  rocking 
In  the  blue  of  the  clear  upper  air; — 
There's  a  crackling  of  fibre,  the  crashing 
Of  a  century  crushed  at  a  blow, 
While  the  fir  trees  are  wringing  and  lashing 
Their  hands  in  a  frenzy  of  woe. 

A  pheasant  whirs  up  from  the  thicket 
In  the  hush  that  comes  after  the  fall, 

105 


When  the  squirrel  retires  to  his  wicket, 

And  the  blue-bird  renounces  his  call, 

And  the  panther  is  crouched  by  the  boulder 

In  the  gloom  of  the  canyon  anear, 

As  the  brown  bear  looks  over  his  shoulder, 

And  the  buck  blows  a  signal  of  fear; 

But  there's  never  a  pause  in  your  duty, 

For  the  echoing  axe  is  not  still 

As  you  waste  the  green  temples  of  beauty 

For  the  puncheons  and  rafter  and  sill 

That  are  wrought  in  the  cabin  so  lowly 

That  the  trees  may  clasp  hands  overhead, 

But  the  heart  calls  it  home,  and  the  holy 

Love-light  on  its  hearthstone  is  shed. 

It  is  staunch  and  rough-hewn,  and  the  ceiling 
Of  the  fragrant  red  cedar  is  made, 
With  an  edging  of  silver  revealing 
A  picture  of  sunlight  and  shade. 
And  the  Word  has  its  place,  not  a  trifle, 
Obscured  in  a  pageant  of  books ; 
And  above  the  broad  mantle  your  rifle 
Is  hung  on  accessible  hooks. 
O,  the  freshness  of  Hope  and  of  Fancy 
That  illumine  the  home  and  the  heart 
With  the  grace  of  a  bright  necromancy 
That  excels  the  adorning  of  art ! 
And  you  rise  and  look  forth,  and  the  glory 
Of  Hood  is  before  you  again, 
And  the  sun  weaves  a  gold-threaded  story 
In  the  purple  of  mountain  and  glen. 

106 


Stand  up,  and  look  out  of  the  mansion 

That  adorns  the  old  scene  of  the  past, 

On  the  fruitage  of  hope — the  expansion 

Of  the  future  your  vigils  forecast ! 

While  the  shadows  of  Hood  have  been  wheeling 

Away  from  the  face  of  the  sun, 

What  a  glamour  of  change  has  been  stealing 

O'er  the  fields  that  you  painfully  won ! 

Like  the  castles  that  fade  at  cock-crowing 

The  enchantments  arise  and  advance 

Where  the  cities  of  commerce  are  glowing 

Like  pearls  in  the  braid  of  Romance; 

For  a  state,  in  her  shimmering  armor, 

Like  Pallas  Athena  has  come, 

And  her  aegis  is  fringed  with  the  wanner 

Refulgence  that  circles  our  home. 

As  for  you,  you  are  gray,  and  the  thunder 
Of  the  battle  has  smitten  each  brow 
Where  the  freshness  of  youth  was  turned  under 
By  Time's  immemorial  plow; 
But  the  pictures  of  Memory  linger 
Like  the  shadows  that  turn  to  the  east, 
And  will  point  with  a  tremulous  finger 
To  the  things  that  have  perished  and  ceased; 
For  the  trail  and  the  foot-log  have  vanished, 
The  canoe  is  a  song  and  a  tale, 
And  the  flickering  church-spire  has  banished 
The  uncanny  redman  from  the  vale ; 
The  cayuse  is  no  longer  in  fashion, 
He  is  gone — with  a  flutter  of  heels, 

107 


And  the  old  wars  are  dead,  and  their  passion 

In  the  crystal  of  culture  congeals; 

And  the  wavering  flare  of  the  pitchlight, 

That  illumines  your  banquets  no  more, 

Will  return,  like  a  wandering  witchlight, 

And  encrimson  the  fancies  of  yore — 

When  you  danced  the  "  Old  Arkansas  "  gaily 

In  brogans  that  had  followed  the  bear, 

And  quaffed  the  delight  of  Castaly 

From  the  fiddle  that  wailed  like  despair; 

And  so  lightly  you  wrought  with  the  hammer, 

And  so  truly  with  axe  and  with  plow, 

And    you    blazed    your    own    trails    through    the 

grammar, 

As  the  record  must  fairly  allow ; 
But  you  builded  a  state  in  whose  arches 
Shall  be  carven  the  deed  and  the  name, 
And  posterity  lengthen  its  marches 
In  the  glow  of  your  honor  and  fame! 

THE  WIZARD  OWL 

A  New  Year's  Story  in  Rhyme 

In  Portland's  far  heroic  day, 
When  forest  firs  disputed  sway, 
While  but  a  mythic  spear  was  set 
To  show  where  spires  would  glimmer  yet, 
And  all  a  city's  grace  and  sheen 
Arise  o'er  conquered  ranks  of  green, 
A  little  lonely  cabin  stood 
Within  the  border  of  the  wood. 

108 


Lowly  it  was,  but  not  unsightly, 
For  sombre  firs,  erect  and  knightly 
A  marvellous  dark  background  lent 
To  cabin  rude  and  roving  tent, 
And  in  those  bold,  free-handed  days 
Of  earnest  toil  and  homely  ways, 
When  no  tall  mansion  rose  to  shut 
The  sunlight  from  the  meanest  hut, 
The  dweller  here  might  chance  to  be 
The  lordliest  of  the  strong  and  free. 

Yet  'twas  not  thus;  almost  unknown, 
He  dwelt  there  quietly  alone, 
A  youth  of  manners  smooth  and  mild, 
Who  all  his  waking  hours  beguiled 
With  books  or  gun  and  rod,  and  ne'er 
Seemed  bent  on  other  work    or  cheer. 

Tlhe  smoke  that  curled  in  wreaths  of  blue 

Above  his  chimney's  ragged  flue 

Was  typical  of  peace  within, 

A  life  devoid  of  care  and  sin, 

And  those  strange  dreams  his  fancy  wove 

Beneath  the  whispers  of  the  grove 

When  slow  winds  swept  the  trees,  and  bore 

Sad  music  down  the  wooded  shore. 

On  many  a  fragrant  summer  day 
When  Hood,  exultant  in  his  sway, 
Swung  to  the  sky  his  golden  shield, 
As  if  to  call  the  battle-steeled 

109 


To  hew  the  wilderness,  and  build 

The  empire  from  creation  willed, 

The  dreamer  in  his  door  would  stand, 

And  gaze  upon  the  river's  strand 

Until  his  thoughts  would  soar  and  soar 

Into  the  future  dim  and  hoar. 

Then  in  a  vision  he  could  see 

Pale  shadows  of  the  things  to  be; 

And  in  the  city  built  of  mist, 

Afloat  in  tender  amethyst, 

His  own  great  mansion  spread  and  towered, 

And  lo!  its  portal,  lotus-flowered 

Foretold  a  lulling  life  of  ease 

Amid  delightful  harmonies; 

And  then  he  turned  and  saw  the  town 

Along  the  river  straggling  down, 

And  sought  his  cabin  with  a  sigh 

To  dream  of  far  futurity! 

He  could  not  see  what  force  could  change 

That  park  of  stumps,  a  rude  Stonehenge, 

And  that  wild  forest  sighing  deep 

O'er  centuries  so  long  asleep, 

Into  the  city  he  had  seen 

Portrayed  on  Fancy's  lofty  screen. 

But  they  who  toiled  with  hand  and  brain 
To  open  avenues  of  gain, 
And  lay  the  keels  and  weav*  th«  sails 
Which  som«  day,  with  fair  Fortunes  gales, 
Should  bring  them  honor,  wealth  and  ease 
From  o'er  the  dim  unresting  sees, 

no 


Had  little  time  to  think  of  one 

Who  stood  from  all  the  strife  apart, 

And  so,  alike  in  rain  and  sun, 

Kept  to  their  tasks  with  loyal  heart; 

While  he  among  them  came  and  went, 

Approving  still  their  bold  intent, 

But  too  half-hearted  to  begin 

The  life  that  lives,  the  deeds  that  win. 

Time  sped,  and  on  a  New  Year's  night, 

When  all  the  stars  were  sprinkling  light 

In  showers  of  radiant  golden  rain 

Upon  the  wheeling  world  again, 

And  mists,  like  scarfs  of  pearl,  were  laid 

Upon  the  mountains'  armor-braid, 

The  dreamer,  by  his  lonely  fire, 

Grew  mournful  over  thoughts  of  home, 

And  wondered  that  a  vain  desire 

Had  ever  led  his  steps  to  roam. 

"  But  life  is  full  of  waste  and  folly, 

Away  with  weary  melancholy !  " 

He  cried,  and  filled  the  glass  whose  rays 

Are  crimson  with  the  art  that  slays, 

And  drank  to  all  things  good  and  fair, 

To  happy,  happy  other  days, 

Dim  vanishing  down  Memory's  stair. 

Once  on  a  listless  summer  day 
A  hapless  owl  became  hi»  prey 
As,  gun  in  hand,  in  idle  mood, 
He  loitered  in  the  shady  wood. 
This  bird,  alive,  and  passing  weU, 

111 


And  rife  with  bloody  passions  fell, 

Portrayed  in  cruel  beak  and  grip, 

He  thus  in  classic  faith  had  borne 

Unto  his  cabin  hearth  forlorn, 

For  mystical  companionship. 

So,  on  this  night  of  lonely  longing, 

While  shadows  of  the  past  were  thronging 

With  many  a  mute  and  wan  reproof, 

Upon  a  table,  half  in  shade, 

The  owl,  with  all  his  eyes  arrayed, 

To  dulling  slumber  still  aloof, 

Discreetly  sat,  as  if  he  too 

Saw  ghosts  of  things  in  long  review. 

Under  the  great  firs'  tasselled  tent, 

When  dusk  had  come  and  dews  were  sprent, 

Again  he  plied  his  gory  trade ; 

Soft  as  a  whisper  in  the  dark 

He  flit  Led  swiftly  to  his  mark, 

And  there  was  not  a  sound  to  tell 

What  helpless  victim  instant  fell. 

The  dark-haired  dreamer  drank  once  more 
A  toast  to  pleasures  gone  before, 
Then  from  the  headstones  of  the  past, 
In  rain  and  sunshine  fading  fast, 
Turned  to  the  coming  time  to  grace 
The  portent  of  its  misted  face. 
What  could  he  see  in  that  dark  glass? 
Only  his  pale  conjectures  pass, 
The  old  procession  of  his  dreams, 
Fabrics  of  fleeting  shades  and  beams 


Which  drifted  evermore  away 
Before  the  Present's  stern  array — 
The  stumps  and  canyons,  and  the  town 
By  fair  Willamette  straggling  down. 
Thus  fitfully,  as  Fancy  soared, 
He  darkly  guessed  and  deeply  pored 
Until  unto  himself  he  said, 
"  It  may  be,  in  dim  years  ahead ! 
But  oh,  the  waiting!  who  shall  say 
How  many  years  must  roll  away 
Before  this  mountain  camp  shall  be 
A  mistress  of  the  sail-swept  sea, 
Waving  her  sinewy,  jewelled  hands 
In  empire  over  boundless  lands?  " 
A  gurgling  flow  of  elfish  laughter 
Echoed  from  rough  log  wall  to  rafter, 
A  sound  the  trav'ller  hears  with  dread 
In  gloomy  firs  high  overhead, 
When  night  and  forest  shake  his  soul 
With  terror  all  beyond  control. 
Startled,  the  moody  dreamer  turned, 
And  lo !  upon  him  glared  and  burned 
The  owl's  wide  eyes,  commingled  rays 
Of  yellow,  purple,  chrysoprase, 
Burned  deep,  burned  wide,  as  ne'er  before, 
As  with  Dodona's  awful  lore, 
When  muffled  kings  sought  her  dark  ways. 
46  Aha !     Those  eyes  that  must  have  slept 
When  Hector  bled  and  Priam  wept 
Are  luminous  this  New  Year's  night 
And  I  am  vainly  asking  light," 
8  113 


He  softly  said,  then  paling,  faltered, 

As  one  who  with  the  unseen  paltered; 

For,  as  when  vapors  black  and  gray 

From  lilied  dawn  are  swept  away, 

A  filmy  curtain  seemed  to  fade 

From  mind  and  soul,  and  in  those  eyes, 

Lustrous  with  mighty  destinies 

And  flames  of  life,  unfixed,  unmade, 

He  saw  the  wondrous  Future  rise ; — 

Swiftly  in  panoramic  view, 

The  old  times  were  displaced  by  new: 

The  crested  firs  went  down  like  knights 

Lance-struck  in  ringing  olden  fights, 

And  all  the  century-furrowed  land, 

The  church,  the  school,  the  court,  the  mart, 

Temples  of  pleasure,  toil  and  art, 

With  glimmering  spires  and  gleaming  domes, 

Were  set  in  landscape  bright  with  homes — 

He  saw  the  swarm  of  men  like  bees, 

The  building  of  the  pillared  quays, 

The  lordly  ships  with  canvas  furled, 

From  seas  that  roll  around  the  world, 

The  thronging  river  craft  that  broke 

The  lucid  wave  in  spray  and  smoke; 

And  from  converging  ways,  strange  steeds, 

With  trailing  plumes  and  shining  mail, 

Flying  in  answer  to  the  hail 

Of  wider  action,  swifter  needs ; 

He  saw  a  city  throned  and  shining, 

And  fairer  than  his  best  divining 

In  any  roseate  revery — 

114 


A  city  in  its  regal  power; 
Glowing  and  crescent,  proud  and  free. 
All  this  with  hints  of  things  aside, 
The  theatre  of  action  wide; — 
The  sable  smoke  of  border  wars, 
With  hecatombs  to  stormy  Mars — 
The  sudden  sparkling  in  the  sun 
Of  towns  beginning  and  begun — 
Cleaving  of  mountains  and  fierce  air 
Tossing  the  brown  earth  everywhere. 

Then  from  those  wondrous  eyes  the  fire 
Went  out;  he  saw  the  flame  expire; — 
Then  pausing  with  a  flush  elate, 
He  lightly  murmured,  "  I  shall  wait ! " 
And  once  again  from  wall  to  rafter 
Echoed  the   gurgling  elfish  laughter. 
But  when  he  looked,  the  wise-eyed  owl, 
With  whom  his  life  was  cheek  by  jowl, 
There  in  the  firelight's  fitful  play, 
Sat  bleakly  staring,  calm  and  gray. 

The  Old  Year's  closed  and  finished  book 
Was  shrined  among  the  scrolls  of  Fame ; 
Splendid  in  robes  of  gold  and  azure, 
And  all  untried  in  toil  and  pleasure, 
The  New  Year  to  his  empire  came, 
And  from  his  diamond  sceptre  shook 
An  all  resplendent  virgin  flame. 
The  dreamer,  with  an  inward  smile, 
Looked  over  gorge  and  stump  and  tree, 

115 


And  clothed  them  radiantly  the  while 
In  purple-misted  destiny. 
His  ways  change  not;  why  should  he  toil 
When  other  forces  heaped  the  spoil? 
He  would  evade  the  primal  curse, 
For  there  was  money  in  has  purse 
To  bide  the  day,  foretold  to  come, 
When  that  forbidding  slope  should  bloom 
With  rose  and  myrtle  and  the  glory 
Of  life's  exultant,  changing  story. 
The  sapient  bird  he  kept,  and  none 
His  matchless  secret  ever  won; 
And  so  the  years  rolled  on  and  on 
Through  dusky  twilight  to  the  dawn, 
And  through  its  silvery,  rising  arch, 
To  day's  illumined,  joyful  march. 
'Tis  New  Year's  night  again,  the  earth 
Is  radiant  o'er  the  royal  birth, 
With  star-drift  and  the  flower  of  pearl: 
A  robe  of  beauty  and  of  light 
Around  its  wintry  dusk  to-night 
The  woven  snow-flakes  softly  furl. 
Bowed  down  in  helplessness  and  gloom, 
A  lodger  in  a  squalid  room 
Sits  brooding  by  a  rusted  stove, 
In  which  a  low  fire,  brooding,  too, 
Drops  into  ashes,  pale  and  rue, 
For  some  bird-haunted  breezy  grove. 
And  in  that  bent  and  mournful  form, 
Drooping  to  keep  its  thin  blood  warm — 
Those  matted  locks  of  iron  gray, 

116 


That  sad  and  worn  and  wrinkled  face — 
The  feeble  semblance  you  can  trace 
Of  one  who  knew  another  day ; 
And,  gray  and  tattered,  like  his  master, 
With  solitude  and  chill  disaster, 
A  quaint  old  owl,  still  staring  wide, 
Sits  on  a  table  at  his  side. 
Through  all  the  long  eventful  years, 
Rainbowed  with  joys,  bedewed  with  tears, 
The  man  had  kept  his  tryst  with  fate, 
True  to  his  saying,  "  I  shall  wait." 
His  purse  and  little  stint  of  land 
Had  vanished  all,  an  idle  hand 
And  dreaming  brain,  that  builded  fair 
Its  gorgeous  tableaux  in  the  air, 
But  never  in  its  mazy  coil 
Had  fixed  the  ritual  of  toil ; 
And  yet  in  all  his  dreary  waiting, 
And  vexed  with  troubles  past  relating, 
He  had  maintained  the  wizard  bird 
Though  unillumined  and  unheard. 
To-night  the  rounded  fateful  time 
Was  trilling  to  its  silvery  chime, 
For  all  the  vision  of  the  past, 
In  glorious  truth  arose  at  last — 
A  queenly  city  on  her  throne 
Ruled  where  the  olden  firs  made  moan, 
But  what  was  that  to  him?     He  stood 
Without  the  gates  in  solitude, 
A  haunting  shadow  of  the  meed 
That  answers  manhood's  ringing  creed; 

117 


For  Time  may  come  with  gems  and  flowers, 
But  lo !  they  are  not  always  ours ! 

He  raised  his  head,  the  gray  bird's  gaze 
Kindled  with  deep  prophetic  blaze, 
And  with  a  flush  of  glad  surprise 
The  master  peered  in  those  wild  eyes, 
Fading  again  to  filmy  veil, 
And  there,  as  in  a  desert  pale, 
He  saw  himself  in  rags  and  woe — 
Only  himself — deserted,  lone, 
And  closed  his  eyes  no  more  to  know, 
His  life-long  vigil  closed  and  done; 
And  o'er  him  gurgled  elfish  laughter — 
The  owl's  last  rite — no  more  hereafter! 


PORTLAND 

But  yesterday,  and  sombre  firs 
Thronged  here — the  kingly  chroniclers 

Of  lapsing  and  lethean  time, 
And  day,  in  golden  armor  drest, 
Swept  through  the  gates  of  East  and  West, 
And  night,  with  many  a  silv'ry  sail, 
Led  by  the  moon,  serene  and  pale, 

Rode  the  blue  seas  of  space  sublime. 

Dreamy  and  dark,  the  forest  trees 
Trembled  with  potent  prophecies, 

And  spread  broad  palms  in  mystic  sign, 
As  in  his  slender  carved  canoe, 

118 


Skimming  the  waters  swift  and  true, 
The  Indian  passed,  sad-browed  and  calm, 
As  if  his  spirit  drank  the  balm 

Breathed  by  an  ancient  holy  shrine. 

Flinging  a  spray  of  jewels  bright, 

With  changing  stroke  from  left  to  right, 

He  saw  the  shadow  of  his  plume 
Floating  in  pride  where  twin  keels  kist 
In  swinging  spheres  of  amethyst, 
And  lilies  waving  fragrant  bells 
Across  the  lips  of  fainting  swells 

By  broidered  shores  of  song  and  bloom. 

On  fair  Willamette's  bosom,  yet 
Sweet  with  unsullied  violet, 

Portentous  lights  and  shadows  played; 
And  waking  in  the  vesper  breeze 
With  music  as  of  marching  seas, 
The  firs,  of  priestly  mien  austere, 
Waved  their  wild  harps  with  gestures  drear, 

And  sang  of  destinies  delayed. 

At  dawn,  on  yonder  royal  hill, 
The  crested  deer,  a  monarch  still, 

Looked  forth  upon  a  matchless  realm, 
As  wide  and  wild  as  ocean's  breast 
Tossed  in  a  fury  of  unrest, 
And  thus  struck  still,  eternal,  grand — 
A  tempest  of  untrodden  land 

Bowing  to  Hood's  refulgent  helm! 
119 


It  was  but  yesterday,  and  lo ! 

Forests  have  passed,  and  church  spires  glow 

Where  dryads  roved  in  days  before — 
As  if  the  wildwood's  tangled  screen, 
Mask  of  mystery  unseen, 
Had  fallen  in  a  single  night 
And  left  a  pearl  of  life  and  light 

Glim'ring  on  this  enchanted  shore. 

Thus  in  her  coronal  of  hills, 
Where  Hybla  dew  of  health  distils, 

The  gem  of  sunset  land  has  sprung — 
Brightly,  as  in  Arabian  Nights, 
Rose  a  city  of  all  delights — 
The  river,  like  a  scarf  of  gold, 
Clasping  her  beauty,  manifold, 

And  purple  mysteries  'round  her  flung. 

And  north  and  south,  as  free  winds  blow, 
A  thousand  smoke-plumes  float  and  flow 

Over  the  city's  pulsing  life — 
Over  resplendent  street  and  square 
And  the  long  tumult  swelling  there — 
The  low,  light  laughter,  and  the  wail 
Of  rose-wreathed  lips,  and  lips  all  pale 

From  wounds  struck  deep  in  fate's  full  strife. 

Lo,  where  the  yellow  panther  crept, 
And  the  long  shadows  darkly  slept, 

Our  love  crowns  life,  and  death  crowns  love, 
And  pride  of  gold  and  pomp  of  power 

120 


Hold  the  high  sway  of  one  short  hour — 
And  wan  fates  weave  their  threads  and  keep 
The  annals  of  the  years  that  sleep, 
Sorrow  and  joy  in  one  web  wove. 

Honor  to  thee,  O  civic  queen, 
Throned  in  a  plumy  storm  of  green, 

A  lifted  lustre,  starry  white! 
Honor  and  wealth!   And  on  thy  brow 
Blossom  the  wreath  of  virtue's  vow — 
The  fields  give  tribute,  and  the  gales 
Waft  thee  tall  ships  and  costly  bales 

Till  high  Hood  flame  a  last  good-night! 


LAUNCHING  OF  THE  BATTLESHIP  OREGON 

O  ship,  like  crested  Pallas  armed, 
O  bride  the  hoary  god  hath  charmed, 
Leap  to  his  proud  and  strong  embrace, 
In  Freedom's  squadron  take  thy  place! 

Northward,  in  sheen  of  crystal  mail, 

A  scarf  of  cloud  upon  his  breast, 
Our  mountain  monarch,  Hood,  will  hail 

The  mighty  daughter  of  the  West ; 
And  hail  with  broad,  uplifted  shield, 
The  sea,  thy  home  and  battle-field, 
While  the  vast  hosts  of  phalanxed  firs 
Swell  the  deep  song  of  worshippers. 


Hood's  brow  of  prescience,  wreathed  with  dreams, 
The  mist  through  which  his  grandeur  gleams 

In  storm  and  calm,  has  brooded  o'er 
The  hardy  few  that  erstwhile  came 
And  wrought  in  tears,  and  blood  and  flame, 

That  stripes  might  stream  and  stars  might  soar, 
And  lustrous  shine  thy  chosen  name. 

Launched  on  the  golden-gated  bay, 
Be  thine  a  royal  bridal  day ; 
And  with  the  waves'  exultant  kiss 
Come  dreams  of  olden  Salamis, 

When  Greece  was  life's  white  morning  star; — 
Come,  welcome  to  a  scene  like  this, 

The  memories  of  Trafalgar, 
And  Erie's  crash  of  thunder,  telling 
How  Perry's  warrior  heart  was  swelling; — 
Come,  through  the  sombre  dusk  of  years, 
Decatur's  drum-beat  in  Algiers, 
Come,  echoing  from  a  frosting  lip, 
That  whisper,  "  Don't  give  up  the  ship !  " 

To  greet  thy  nuptials  here  behold, 
While  o'er  enchanted  streams  and  woods 
October's  misty  splendor  broods, 

Our  forests  lit  with  lamps  of  gold, 
And  many  a  leafy  mountain  shrine, 
Dashed  with  the  red  autumnal  wine, 
For  thee  a  symbol  and  a  sign 

Of  fates  serene  and  trust  untold. 


O,  swift  and  strong  and  terrible, 

Go  forth  to  guard  our  cherished  shore 
Till  all  thy  fated  days  are  full 

And  War's  hoarse  call  is  heard  no  more! 
Go  forth,  O  warder  of  the  free, 
And  peerless  may  thy  vigil  be, 
Till  cape  and  bay  and  cliff  and  crag 
Flash  with  the  glory  of  the  flag 
Triumphant  yet  on  land  and  sea! 
And  O,  guard  well  the  gleaming  strand 
Of  this,  our  fair  Arcadian  land, 

Won  in  the  storms  of  years  gone  by, 
With  drain  of  heart  and  wound  of  hand, 

When  man  could  dare,  and  do,  and  die ! 

Be  worthy  of  the  mystic  name 

These  matchless  vales  and  mountains  bear; 
That  in  the  tents  of  sunset  Fame 

May  twine  a  wreath  for  thee  to  wear. 
And  when  thy  flag  shall  kiss  the  breeze 
Of  these,  our  blue  northwestern  seas, 
Lo,  white  and  strange  and  soaring  high 
In  the  vast  temples  of  the  sky, 
The  peaks  our  lisping  children  know 
A  welcoming  to  thee  will  glow! 

Helen's  to  Hood  will  pass  the  sign, 
And  Jefferson,  with  brow  benign, 

Will  signal  to  the  Sisters  Three 
That  the  long  watch  was  not  in  vain; 

123 


For  lo,  upon  the  radiant  main 
The  mailed  patrol  of  liberty! 
Here,  at  the  mighty  ocean  gate, 
Columbia,  in  his  pride,  will  greet 
The  Boadicea  of  our  fleet; 
And  from  embattled  heights  the  voice 
Of  cannon  make  the  deep  rejoice, 
And  festal  sunshine  gleam  upon 
The  green,  glad  hills  of  Oregon, 

Thine  and  our  own  deep-bosomed  State. 


124 


Memories  of  the  West 


RED  LACY 

The  moon  on  the  blue  of  her  star-dimpled  sea, 
Sailed  grandly  above  us  that  night  as  we  sped, 
And  the  driver  uncurled  the  last  loop  of  his  lash 
At  the  grays  in  the  swing, — how  they  sprang  at  its 

flash! 
As   the   horses,   all   six,   with   their  plumes   in   the 

breeze, 
Were  away  with  a  musical  rhyme  in  their  tread! 

Away,  and  away,  with  a  sparkle  of  fire, 

That  was  struck  in  the  tempest  of  iron  and  steel — 

Away,  with  a  tossing  of  helmeted  heads, 

As  wild  as  the  waves  when  the  sails  are  in  shreds, — 

Away — with  a  glimmer  of  buckle  and  tire, 

With  the  road  flashing  under  like  fate  from  a  reel! 

And  the  trees  gave  a  hurried  good-night  as  we  raced, 
While  the  mountains  were  stormily  billowing  by, 
And  the  mystical  pageant  of  midnight  unrolled, 
As  the  stars  clinked  their  goblets  of  crystal  and  gold. 
It  was  god-like  and  glorious,  a  life  spilled  in  haste 
With  the  spirit  aflame  and  the  blood  dashing  high. 

127 


There  is  nothing  like  this,  to  be  hurled  through  the 

night, 

When  the  passionate  bosom  of  summer  is  veiled 
In  a  moon-misted  dream,  and  the  flowers,  asleep, 
Are  exhaling  their  souls  in  the  luminous  deep. 
To  be  hurled  by  swift  steeds  in  a  musical  flight, 
To  awaken  the  world,  and  be  beckoned  and  hailed. 

But  to  sit  with  Red  Lacy,  the  princeliest  whip! 
Of  all  the  bold  drivers  renowned  in  the  West, 
Was  the  prize  of  all  travel,  unique  and  alone, 
As  you  saw  the  stars  reel  when  the  silk  lash  was 

thrown, 

And  the  beauty  of  night  was  as  sweet  on  your  lip 
As  the  starry  champagne  that  the  gods  love  the 

best. 

It  was  mine,  was  the  prize,  on  that  night  of  all 

nights ! 

I  quaffed  the  delight  of  a  magical  ride, 
As  we  swept  down  the  grades  like  a  fragment  of 

storm, 

Belated,  and  spurred  by  a  frantic  alarm, 
And  the   shade   of  the  lowland,  the  sheen  of  the 

heights 
Were  as  spectres  that  danced  in  the  petulant  tide. 

And  the  driver  at  intervals  merrily  sang 
Of  the  faithful  in  love  and  the  daring  in  war, 
Till  the  canyons  were  wild  with  the  echoes  they  bore 

198 


And  the  owl  in  his  bower  forgot  to  deplore, — 

It   was   mirth — it  was  madness — the  glad  coursers 

sprang 
To  the  time  of  his  chorus,  away  and  afar. 

But  a  skeleton  shadow,  a  thread  of  romance 
Were  involved  in  the  texture  of  Red  Lacy's  past. 
'Twas  a  sorrowful  story,  so  old  and  so  true 
Of  the  orange  wreath  changed  to  a  chaplet  of  rue — 
Of  a  maiden  dishonored,  the  spectres  that  dance 
In  the  soul  of  a  lover  unfaithful  at  last. 


Was  he   drinking   that   night?     It   will   never  be 

known, 

For  it  might  have  been  madness  that  kindled  his  eye, 
And  the  flush  of  a  frenzy  that  flamed  in  his  cheek — 
As  a  ship  will  go  down  with  her  colors  a  peak, 
But  I  thought  him  so  handsome  with  hair  backward 

blown, 
As  he  sang  the  wild  strain  of  his  own  lullaby. 

"  I  will  show  you,"  he  said  in  a  pause  of  the  song, 
"  Where  I  first  met  the  girl  whom  I  loved  long 

ago; 

It  was  down  in  the  canyon — her  father  lived  there, 
But  has  lately  removed,  and  I  wish  I  knew  where — 
For  they  say  that  my  Maggie  is  dead,  and — Go 

'long!" 
And  he  shook  out  the  lasn,  singing  sadly  and  low. 

9  129 


And  so  wildly  and  fearfully,  madly  we  fled, 

That  the  pines  lifted  hands  with  a  sudden  dismay, 

While  the  bacchanal  stars  were  commingled  above, 

As  they  tangled  their  hair  in  a  revel  of  love, 

And  the  moon,  with  a  face  like  the  face  of  the  dead, 

Like  a  storm-stricken  galleon  tossed  on  her  way. 

At  the  rim  of  the  canyon  the  road  sweeping  down, 
In  a  glimmer  of  moonlight  and  darkness  of  hell: 
Will  he  think  and  draw  rein?     There's  a  smile  on 

his  face 

That  is  mournfully  sweet,  for  this  terrible  pace — 
And  the  grays  as  they  dash,  seem  to  darken  and 

drown 
In  the  gloom  of  the  gradte  they  are  treading  so  well. 

It  was  life,  it  was  rapture — and  terrible  too! 

As  an  army  with  banners  swung  down  to  the  fight. 

When  we  struck  the  last  curve  of  the  dangerous 

grade 

Where  it  dizzily  dips  in  a  region  of  shade, 
Lo!  a  shape  in  the  moonlight  arose  in  our  view, 
At  the  edge  of  the  road,  and  supernally  white. 

"  It  is  Maggie,  God  bless  her !  "  shrieked  Lacy,  and 

rose 

With  a  radiant  face,  and  a  knightly  salute. 
And  I  sprang  to  his  side,  and  had  caught  at  a  rein, 
But  the  stars  were  all  dashed,  in  the  sphere  of  my 

brain, 

130 


And   were   darkened   and   quenched  in   the   solemn 

repose 
Of  the  portal  of  death,  and  as  cold,  and  as  mute. 

I  awoke,  I  remembered,  and  brushed  back  the  hair 
From  a  bruise  on  my  forehead,  got  up  and  beheld; 
On  the  right  were  the  grays  that  had  gallantly  led, 
While  the  others  around  them  lay  dying  or  dead, 
With  the  coach  below  all  with  the  wheels  in  the  air 
Like  a  ship  that  a  pitiless  storm  has  impelled. 

And  there  lay  the  driver,  his  head  on  the  neck 
Of  a  favorite  wheeler  before  him  in  death — 
Yet  alive — and  yet  dying,  as  heroes  can  die, 
With  a  tender  love-light  in  his  shadowy  eye, 
Yet  alive  and  yet  dying,  around  him  the  wreck 
Of  his  home  and  his  kingdom,  his  love  and  his  faith. 

And  I  prayed  as  I  tenderly  lifted  his  head 

That  the  Father  might  spare  him  for  poor  Maggie's 

sake; 

But  he  looked  at  me  gently,  a  smile  on  his  lip, 
As  he  murmured,  his  fingfers  still  grasping  the  whip, 
"  It's   the   home   station,   stranger — the   lights   are 

ahead, 
I  am  on  the  down  grade,   and  I  can't  reach  the 

brake!" 


131 


THE  MOTHER'S  VIGIL 

The  day  and  the  year  were  a-dying  together. 
The  crimson  to  crimson  and  gold  unto  gold, 
While  the  pine,  dropping  burrs  in  the  sweet  autumn 

weather, 

All  sadly  and  softly  its  rosary  told. 
We  leaned  on  our  guns,  and  looked  over  the  city, 
Enthroned  in  the  days  that  eternally  thrill; 
While  one  stood  in  silence,  and  one  hummed  a  ditty 
Of  a  love  that  was  lost,  and  a  wheel  that  was  still. 
And  there  were  the  scars  of  the  days  of  endeavor, 
The  ditches  and  reservoirs,  sluices  and  all, 
Debris  of  a  battle,  pathetic  forever, 
As  part  of  the  resonant  age  they  recall; 
For  silence  had  stooped  on  the  desolate  ditches — 
Save  only  the  querulous  call  of  the  quail 
A-scolding  her  brood,  from  the  tunnels  and  pitches 
To  chaparral  shades  and  the  leaf -covered  trail. 

A  silence  was  there,  but  that  silence  sang  dirges, 
O  hopelessly  sad  to  the  sorrowing  soul, 
So  hopelessly  sad,  like  the  wail  of  wild  surges 
Gone  mad  in  the  gleam  of  their  wandering  goal. 
"  Ah !    whither,"    I    murmured,    "  in    chances    and 

changes, 

Gilding  or  soiling,  a  curse  or  caress, 
Now  wandfers  the  spoil  of  the  gold-glutted  ranges — 
A  crown  for  dishonor,  a  balm  for  distress? 


The  toilers,  where  are  they,  the  bronzed  and  the 
knighted, 

As  gentle  as  childhood,  and  cruel  as  fire? 

What  hope  was  fulfilled,  and  what  love  was  re- 
quited— 

Ah!  what  was  the  fate  of  their  kingly  desire? 

Lo,  dirges  of  silence,  the  crested  quail  calling, 

Answer  me  vaguely  in  mystical  woe, 

The  glory  of  sunset,  in  benison  falling, 

Filled  all  the  deserted  old  gulches  below. 

"  The  pick  and  the  shovel  are  rusted  and  broken, 
Faded  the  fires    of  the  cabin  and  tent, — 
The  long  roll  has  sounded,  the  Chieftain  has  spoken, 
The  owl  sobs  alone  on  the  hills  that  were  rent. 
With    a    whispering    sound,    as    of    autumn    robes 

trailing, 

October  is  furling  her  banners  of  red, 
And  my  heart  is  bowed  down  in  the  infinite  wailing 
That  times  the  innumerous  march  of  the  dead." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  my  comrade,  regretfully,  lowly, — 

"  Death  and  expenses  are  all  that  are  sure, 

And  we  con  the  old  lesson  though  hardly  and  slowly, 

To  follow  and  follow  some  fanciful  lure; 

But  yet,"  and  he  thoughtfully  levelled  a  finger 

Over  the  sheen  of  the  storm-cradled  town, 

"  There's  a  smoke  on  yon  hillside  that  somehow  will 

linger, 

Like  a  mist  on  the  shore  when  the  tide  has  gone  down. 

133 


"  Have  you  marked  it — a  luminous  violet  column 

On  the  gold  and  the  bronze  of  the  frost-tinted  trees — 

Soaring  to  victory,  saintly  and  solemn, 

With  the  wreathed  immortelles  that  Fidelity  weaves? 

It  is  only  the  smoke  of  a  cabin  so  humble 

The  squirrels  romp  o'er  it  unchecked  by  reproof,' 

Grimy  and  shaky,  I  wonder  the  rumble 

Of  the  wagons  down  there  do  not  shatter  its  roof. 

"  In  the  tempests  of  years  that  'we  fain  are  for- 
getting, 

When  cards  were  religion  and  pistols  were  priests, 
While  the  sun  rode  in  scarlet  at  dawning  and  setting, 
And  a  Bourbon  was  crowned  at  our  funerals  and 

feasts — 

Yon  oak  that  leans  grandly,  a  culdee  extending 
His  priestly  hand  over  that  ruinous  cot, 
Once  thrilled  to  the  shock  of  a  ghastly  descending, 
And  the  Law  was  avenged  with  a  loop  and  a  knot. 

"  He  was  only  an  Indian,  the  son  of  Old  Mary, 

Swarthy  and  wild,  with  midnight  of  hair 

That  arose,  as  he  sped  to  the  Lethean  ferry, 

Like  a  raven  of  doom  in  the  quivering  air. 

Ah,  his  crime?     I've  forgotten, — it  was  something 

or  other 

Judge  Lynch's  decisions  were  never  compiled ; — 
But  we  left  him,  at  last,  with  his  forest-born  mother, 
As  she  camped  by  the  tree  that  had  strangled  her 

child. 

184 


"  Alone  when  the  sombre  and  skeleton  branches 
Thrilled  in  the  rush  of  the  ship-wrecking  storm, 
And  the  glad  little  children,  in  hamlet  and  ranches, 
Laughed  at  the  ingle-side  ruddy  and  warm; 
Alone,  when  the  sibyls  of  springtime,  returning, 
Flung  over  the  forest  an  emerald  mist; 
And  alone,  when  the  stars  of  midsummer  were  burn- 
ing, 

When  the  musk  roses  dreamed  of  the  god  they  had 
kissed. 

"  While  the  years  have  gone  on,  and  the  flush  times 

have  faded, 

Forever  the  smoke  of  her  vigil  ascends, 
And  the  oak,  all  the  while,  that  poor  altar  has  shaded, 
Like  a  penitent  soul  that  would  make  some  amends. 
And  still,  from  his  ashes,  the  dead  day  arises 
A  blossoming  wonder  of  beauty  and  truth, 
While  the  myrtle-wreathed  moon  in  all  gentle  dis- 
guises 
Remembers,  and  twines  her  a  chaplet  of  ruth. 

"  Te  Deums  may  roll  in  the  gloom  of  old  arches, 
Where  the  white-handed  preacher  coquettes  with  his 

God, 

But  Truth  finds  her  own  in  long  battles  and  marches, 
And  the  flowers  will  shine  on  that  tear-sprinkled 

sod. 

When  the  fire  has  gone  out  and  the  vigil  is  ended, 
Poor  Mary  may  sleep  with  the  loved  and  the  leal, 

135 


For  the  stars  will  mount  guard  o'er  the  ashes  she 

tended, 
And  the  beauty  of  morning  return  there  to  kneel." 


SHASTA  JOHN 

I. 

The  twilight  deep  in  the  canyons  lay, 
Like  waiting  columns  of  the  night, 

And,  still  and  slow,  declining  Day 

Withdrew  on  craggy  ridge  and  height, 

And  o'er  their  clustering  shafts  of  gold 

A  bannered  sunset  wide  unrolled. 

II. 

And  down  and  down,  like  the  winding  trace 
Of  some  dead  stream  the  sun  had  slain, 

And  wreathed  its  spirit  of  misty  grace 
In  sailing  clouds  and  summer  rain, 

Our  trail,  with  many  a  fret  and  fall, 

Went  clambering  down  the  mountain  wall. 

HI. 

"  Old  Shasta  John  was  the  grandest  chief 
The  red  tribes  had  in  Oregon, — 

I  owe  him  this ;"  and  the  pale  relief 
Of  one  deep  scar  was  traced  upon 

The  guide's  brown  cheek,  and  his  lifted  hand 

Touched,  as  in  pride,  the  savage  brand. 

136 


IV. 

"  You  see  the  tree  on  the  ridge,  out  there — 
The  fire-stripped  pine,  with  long  white  arms 

Stretched  like  a  ghost  in  the  silent  air?  " — 
(Good  Lord!  a  curse  or  pledge  of  harm 

Seemed  somewhat  meant  by  the  gesture!)    "  Well, 

'Twas  just  below  our  Colonel  fell!" 

V. 

"  And  every  canyon  and  tumbled  peak 

In  all  this  vast  and  lonesome  land 
Could  tell  a  tale,  if  the  dead  could  speak, 

And  point  you  still,  with  ruddy  hand, 
Where  hapless  lives,  by  the  bullet  sped, 
Like  shadows  cross  the  path  we  tread." 

VI. 

And,  deftly  rolling  a  cigarette, 

He  rode  in  silent  self-commune, 
His  tinkling  spurs,  as  he  brooded,  set 

To  memories  of  some  border  tune ; 
And  from  the  embattled  heights  the  day 
In  gold  and  scarlet  passed  away. 

VII. 

Through  paths   half  hid  in  the  tangled  grass, 

We  reined  beneath  a  mighty  fir 
That  stood  alone,  and  the  solemn  mass 

Of  restless  spirits  seems  to  stir 
137 


Like  rising  seas  in  its  tower  of  shade, 
And  deep  and  mournful  music  made. 

VIII. 

The  volunteer  from  his  saddle  leapt, 
And  walked  beside  a  mound  of  stones, 

And  something,  that  started  as  he  stept, 
Seemed  to  have  fled  the  whitening  bones 

That  lay  in  cumbering  grass  and  weed, 

As  if  to  hide  a  stealthy  deed. 

IX. 

"  'Twas  strange,"  he  said,  "  that  a  man  might  die — 

Die  and  be  buried  and  forgot, 
And  yet  live  on  like  a  memory 

Of  one  whose  truer  life  was  not ; 
But  thus,  and  here,  on  another  day, 
Bold  Shasta's  heart  was  laid  away. 

X. 

"  The  mountain  eagle  that  shrieks  and  soars 

In  pathless  skies  was  like  his  soul: 
He  loved  the  wild  of  these  western  shores, 

Where  blue  seas  flash  and  shine  and  roll, 
And  all  things  mighty — a  boundless  dome, 
A  world  of  pines — a  wind-swept  home. 

XI. 

"  And  thus  at  last,  when  his  conquered  band 
Were  gathered  down  beside  the  sea 
138 


To  dig  and  die  on  a  patch  of  land, 

And  learn  to  spell  and  bend  the  knee, 
Old  Shasta  sighed  that  his  heart  was  dead — 
He  would  not  be  in  bondage  led. 

XII. 

"  So,  when  the  moon,  like  a  silvery  bow, 
Bent  from  the  sunward  peaks  and  shed 

Its  grieving  beams  in  the  gorges  low, 
Beneath  the  fir  that  moans  o'erhead, 

They  brought  his  gun  and  his  battle  gear, 

Enwrapped  as  on  a  funeral  bier, 

XIII. 

"  And  laid  them  low  in  a  mystic  grave, 
And  slew  his  spotted  steeds  beside, 

While  to  and  fro  like  a  moaning  wave 

That  swings  and  sings  in  a  troubled  tide, 

His  maidens  danced  in  the  'broidered  shade 

And  sang  his  soul's  last  serenade. 

XIV. 

"  They  say  the  withering  hand  of  Age 

Seemed  first  to  touch  the  chief  that  night, 

And,  old  and  strange,  to  his  narrow  cage 
Down  by  the  sea  he  passed  from  sight, 

A  broken  heart  and  an  empty  frame — 

The  shadow  of  a  mighty  name! 


139 


XV. 

'"  And  who  shall  say  that  his  spirit  wild 
Comes  not  again  in  sun  or  cloud, 

To  roam  at  will  as  a  favored  child, 

When  Shasta  from  his  vap'rous  shroud 

Mutters  in  anger  and  lifts  a  hand 

In  glittering  mail  o'er  freedom's  land?  " 

XVI. 

He  ceased:  and  deep  in  the  canyon's  gloom 

A  toiling  river  sobbed  and  sung, 
And  like  a  wreath  of  bridal  bloom 

The  young  moon's  smile  on  earth  was  flung, 
And  dreamy  Hesper,  in  Heaven  a-near, 
Leaned,  watching,  on  his  golden  spear. 


THE  FATE  OF  MISSISSIP 

Here's  the  cabin  in  the  hollow, 

Where  the  neck  of  woods  comes  down; 
And  the  fir  trees  nod  and  whisper 

As  they  beckon  us,  and  frown. 
Ah!  the  throat  of  stick  and  mortar 

Breathes  no  more  the  curling  smoke — 
And  that  raven,  over  yonder, 

Has   a   plaintive,   funeral   croak  1 

There's  the  door,  on  broken  hinges, 
Leaning  like  a  weary  thing; 
140 


And  the  pathway,  dim  with  grasses, 
Winding  downward  to  the  spring; 

While  this  pyramid  of  antlers — 
Spoils  of  many  a  ringing  chase — 

Tells  you  of  a  hunter's  labor 
In  this  lonely,  lonely  place. 

No,  not  in  there! — this  is  better, 

Where  the   golden  sunbeams   sleep; — 
There  are  stains  upon  those  puncheons 

That  would  make  your  muscles  creep. 
Sit  upon  this  log  beside  me, 

And  I'll  tell  you  how  it  came. 
Match  about  you  ?    Yonder  cabin 

Has  a  wild  and  fearful  fame. 

He  was  big  and  hairy  throated, 

And  his  name  was  "  Mississip ;" 
Rather  curious  mortal  was  he, 

And  he  didn't  care  a  flip 
For  the  frills  of  polished  cities, 

Or  the  sciences  and  arts; 
And  he  fled  like  one  tormented 

From  the  highways  and  the  marts. 

Well,  in  trailing  down  the  border, 
Here  he  pitched  his  tent,  at  last, 

And  the  dogs — they  sought  him  somehow- 
Gathered  round  him  thick  and  fast. 

Hound  and  cur,  full  twenty  of  them, 
Leaped  about  his  open  door; 
141 


And  the  cabin  was  their  kennel, 
And  their  couch  its  rugged  floor. 

Up  and  down  the  wooded  gorges, 

Ere  the  morning  sun  grew  warm, 
You  could  hear  their  angry  chorus, 

Sweeping  like  a  winged  storm — 
Till  the  quick  snarl  of  his  rifle, 

Downward  by  the  river  shore, 
Hushed  the  rolling  wave  of  clamor, 

And  the  gallant  chase  was  o'er. 

But  the  vanguard  of  improvement, 

With  the  compass  and  the  chain, 
Bivouacked  along  the  valley, 

From  the  mountain  to  the  main ; 
And  the  iron  arm  of  Progress 

O'er  the  virgin  wild  was  thrown, 
And  the  steam-fiend  shrieked  and  bellowed 

Where  the  solitude  was  known; 
While  the  canyons  throbbed  and  thundered 

With  the  rush  of  shining  steeds, 
As  the  breath  of  glowing  nostrils 

Rolled  like  war-clouds  o'er  the  meads. 

Vainly,  when  the  shadows  lifted, 
And  the  dew  was  on  the  bush, 

Mississip  would  wind  his  cow's  horn 
In  the  morning's  fragrant  hush; 

"  Turk "  would  lead  the  tawny  hunters 
To  the  hill-side,  as  of  old, 
142 


But  would  never  pitch  the  music, 
For  the  tracks  were  dim  and  cold. 

And  full  often,  too,  mistaking 
For  the  horn  the  engine  pipes, 

They  would  wander  on  wild  chases, 
Like  the  foolish  after  snipes. 

So,  the  useless  gun  was  broken, 

Mississip  would  hunt  no  more — 
While  his  drooping  dogs  stood  round  him 

As  he  ground  his  teeth  and  swore: 
"  This  has  come  of  that  there  railroad, 

And  I  knew,  when  they  begun, 
That  'twould  skeer  the  deer  to  thunder, 

An'  the  hounds  they  wouldn't  run ! " 

Then  he  sat  within  his  cabin., 

In  a  wreathing  cloud  of  smoke, 
While  from  hound  and  cur,  beside  him, 

Oft  the  whine  of  hunger  broke; 
But  he  sat  and  smoked  serenely, 

With  the  famine  in  his  eye, 
Till  you  guessed  his  awful  purpose, 

And  were  sure  he  meant  to  die, 
While  the  eye-balls,  hot  and  glaring, 

Caverned  flanks,  and  dripping  jaws, 
Spoke  the  anguish  of  his  hunters, 

From  the  emptiness  that  gnaws; 
Nearer,  nearer  now  they  circled, 

With  the  click  of  gleaming  fangs; — 
143 


Was't  the  wild  beast  rising  in  them 

From  the  hell  of  hunger's  pangs? 
Was't  the  cry  of  dog  or  devil? 

Mercy!  what  a  sight  was   there — 
Ah,  the  odor  of  that  orgy 

Even  now  must  taint  the  air ! 
Eat  him,?     Well,  should  rather  say  so — 

Mississip  was  soon  released, 
And  their  mouths  were  wet  and  crimson 

With  the  rich  unholy  feast. 

Simmons,  up  from  Sleepy  Hollow, 

Happened  by  the  place  one  day, 
And  he  halted,  just  to  ask  him 

If  his  steers  had  been  that  way ; 
But  he  only  reached  the  threshold 

When  he  started,  all  aghast, 
As  a  something,  swift  and  noiseless, 

Like  a  shadow,  flitted  past: 
Dog,  perhaps,  but  then  no  matter! 

When  he  woke  from  terror's  thrall, 
He  was  startled  by  a  sentence 

On  a  board  against  the  wall — 
Mississip,  no  doubt,  had  done  it, 

'Twas  a  rude  and  homely  scrawl, 
Written  with  a  piece  of  charcoal, 

"  Dem  the  Rale  Road,"  that  is  all. 


144 


IN  THE  SISKIYOUS 

A  Souvenir  of  '56 

Hither  we  bore  him.  from  the  fight, 

With  whispered  speech  and  stealthy  tread ;- 

White,  whimsical  in  laughing  light, 
The  stars  rode  onward  overhead 

And  many  a  golden  plume  let  fall, 

But  took  no  note  of  us  at  all. 

O  wide  and  high,  that  night  of  June, 

The  arches  of  blue  heaven  bent, 
And  like  a  scimitar  the  moon 

Hung  o'er  the  West's  embroidered  tent; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sign 
That  God  was  love  or  Heaven  benign ! 

No  sound  nor  sign — the  Siskiyous, 

Like  priests  of  Moloch,  seared  with  pain, 

Bowed  their  dark  heads  in  midnight  dews 
And  dreamed  of  blood  and  wrath  again, 

With  all  the  lurid  signs  that  rise 

Along  men's  stormy  destinies. 

We  turned  but  once — the  leaping  flame 
Of  our  own  cabin  waved  farewell — 

When  upward,  clanging  wildly,  came 
The  long  and  wavering  Shasta  yell; 

A  sound  that  woke  the  wolf's  lone  howl 

And  sobbing  laughter  of  the  owl. 
10  145 


Enough !   The  Dantean  picture  swung 
Crimson  against  the  wall  of  gloom, 

As  if  a  dream  of  hell  had  sprung 
Starward,  a  lurid  flash  of  doom; 

And  then,  through  rosebay,  crushing  sweet, 

We  bore  the  dead  with  dolor  meet. 

Two  pines,  with  trophied  brows,  and  dark 
With  legendary  plumes  of  pride, 

Crowned  a  drear  ridge,  a  noted  mark, 
With  forests  storming  every  side — 

"  And  here,"  said  we,  "  apart,  alone, 

Well  may  he  sleep,  awaiting  dawn." 

The  little  mound  we  heaped  has  passed, 
A  light  low  wave  on  Earth's  wide  breast, 

And  many  a  fleeting  year  has  cast 

Some  careless  wreath  to  grace  his  rest; — 

While  oft  the  moon,  in  silent  hours, 

Has  strewn  his  tomb  with  silv'ry  flowers. 

And  that  is  all — save  in  the  pale, 

Calm  sky,  an  eagle  sometimes  wheels, 

As  mountain  storms  sweep  by  and  hail 
The  dead  with  martial  thunder-peals — 

The  dead  that  wake  not  through  the  years, 

That  have  for  him  no  smile  or  tears. 

So  let  him  sleep;  the  savage  cry 
Of  border  war  is  hushed  at  last, 
146 


And  gleaming  cities  greet  the  sky 

That  bent  above  the  stormy  past — 
A  past  so  strange  and  far  away 
It  seems  a  dream  all  dim  and  gray. 

As  was  his  day  so  was  his  strength; 

No  perfumed  hero,  flushed  with  pride: — 
He  hewed  the  way,  and  here,  at  length, 

Rolled  down  the  mighty  human  tide 
With  civic  pomp  and  cultured  grace, 
Where  such  as  he  are  out  of  place. 

Good-night !   Good-night !   Why  dreaming  stand, 

All  lonely,  by  this  lonely  tomb, 
And  ask  if  that  long-folded  hand 

Had  won  a  crown  of  fadeless  bloom? 
When    down  the  trail  his  brave  foot  trod, 
The  pioneer  went  home  to  God! 


THE  SPOTTED  CAYUSE 

"  And  thereby  hangs  a  tale  " 

Now  the  Government  mule's  an  unprincipled  steed, 

And  comes  as  near  being  a  genuine  ass 
As  any  that  isn't  exactly  the  breed ; 

But    the    crookedest    thing    that    is    loose    upon 

grass — 

A  demon  on  wheels  and  without  an  excuse, 
Is  an  Oregon  pony,  they  call  the  cayuse. 

147 


He's  of  Indian  extraction,  a  savage  at  heart, 

With  an  odor  of  camas  and  smoke  of  the  camp, 
He  has  scorned  the  dull  life  of  the  plough  and  the 

cart, 

And  is  noT*  and  forever  a  vagabond  tramp — 
With  a  stomach  so  tough  that  he'll  live  and  grow 

fat, 
On  a  Hudson  Bay  blanket  or  a  slice  of  old  hat. 

I  attained  a  cayuse,  in  the  days  that  are  gone, 
And  I  think  he  was  rather  too  good  for  this  world, 

With  his  billowy  mane,  and  those  natty  spots  on, 
And  a  tail  like  a  pirate's  black  banner  unfurled — 

Ah,  surely  his  like  never  strayed  among  men, 

And  I  piously  trust  that  'twill  never  again! 

He  had  nothing  worth  mention  in  matter  of  ears — 
And  it  made  him  look  saucy  and  rather  unique — 

For  the  Oregon  youth  chew  them  off,  it  appears, 
For  as  long  as  ears  last  they  can  manage  to  stick, 

Through  the  tempest  of  "  spiking  "  that  follows,  of 
course, 

Whenever  you  mount  this  ineffable  horse. 

He  would  wave  his  hind  legs  with  a  kind  of  war- 
whoop, 

If  I  tried  to  approach  with  a  rope  in  my  hand, 
And  I  ran  till  I  wheezed  like  a  babe  with  the  croup, 
But  the  volatile  wretch  would  not  come  to  a  stand 
Till  he  fell  in  a  pit  I  had  deftly  concealed, 
When  he  stood  on  his  ear,  and  Jehu,  how  he  squealed ! 

148 


Then  he  fought  like  a  tiger,  and  wouldn't  give  in 
To  the  touch  of  the  saddle,  until  he  was  thrown, 

And  choked  with  a  chain;  and  it  seemed  like  a  sin, 
As  he  limbered  right  out  and  grew  still  with  a 
groan ; 

But  his  eye  was  half  closed,  and  it  shimmered  a  fire 

Like  a  thunder  cloud's  fitful  and  treacherous  ire. 

And  he  silently  swore  at  his  menial  gear 

As  he  drooped  like  a  butterfly  rudely  caressed; 

And  I  pitied  his  plight,  and  was  brushing  a  tear 
That  hung  on  my  lashes,  a  traitor  confessed, 

When  he  launched  out  a  foot  with  a  meteor  flash, 

And  my  nose  was  past  mending,  for  love  or  for  cash. 

From  the  uppermost  rail  of  a  very  high  fence 
I  climbed  down  on  his  back,  and  at  first  he  was 

still, 
But  I  wasn't  kept  long  in  a  strain  of  suspense, 

When  he  started — and  then — there  was  music  until 
He  had  bucked  me  cross-eyed,  tied  my  tongue  in  a 

knot, 
And  sowed  me  like  salt  on  a  ten-acre  lot. 

And  so,  reader  mine,  take  a  piece  of  advice, 
(It  has  cost  me  four  ribs  and  a  talented  nose) 

The  cayuse  is  a  cure — a  canary  on  ice, 

A  simoon  of  destruction,  a  tempest  of  woes ; 

He  is  wicked  and  worse — he's  perpetual — well 

You  remember  the  place  where  the  dead  fiddlers  dwell ! 

140 


THE  BALLAD  OF  KANGAROO 

Like  a  golden  pheasant  sunning 

Upon  a  rugged  hill, 
October  flaunts  her  plumage 

Of  brown  and  amber  still,- 
While  the  ancient  mining  village 

At  the  foot  of  the  slope  awaits, 
Like  a  beggar  rudely  hustled 

From  fortune's  shining  gates. 

Preaching  a  solemn  gospel 

From  many  a  broken  door,* 
While  the  sun  checks  mimic  faro 

Upon  the  crumbling  floor — 
There  was  never  a  sadder  triumph 

Of  Death's  imperial  shade, 
And  never  a  truer  poem 

Than  time  and  tide  have  made. 

From  hollow  window  casements 
Destruction  glares  and  glooms, 

And  the  spider's  musty  legends 
Wave  round  the  empty  rooms, 

And  the  crickets  in  the  chimney 

•     A  dry,  harsh  note  prolong 

Like  a  minstrel  tuning  vainly 
For  a  long-forgotten  song. 
150 


Silence  where  life  was  stormy, 

And  sadness  where  hearts  were  gay, 
A  court  of  desolation, 

And  a  kingdom  of  decay; 
The  camp  once  crowned  with  conquest 

Now  pays  its  vassal  dues, 
While  all  the  bannered  seasons 

March  o'er  the  Siskiyous. 

The  sallow  and  slant-eyed  mongrel, 

A  ghoul  among  the  dead, 
Glides  here  and  there  in  silence, 

With  ghostly  shaven  head, 
And  the  horrible  dank  flavor 

We  know,  but  dread  to  name, 
Old  mortality  warmed  over, 

And  age  after  age  the  same! 

Sit  with  me  on  the  doorstep 

Of  the  classic  "  Belvidere  " 
While  we  challenge  all  the  shadows 

That  claim  admission  here; 
For  they  come  again  at  evening 

In  noiseless  masquerades, 
To  quaff  their  dim  potations 

And  flush  their  nasal  shades. 

Again  they  swear,  in  whispers, 

Again  revolvers  gleam, 
As  they  stab  and  shoot  serenely, 

Like  the  phantoms  of  a  dream, — 
151 


And  the  typic  man  for  breakfast 

Is  laid  aside  to  cool 
Under  the  billiard  table, 

Red-hot  with  whiskey  pool. 

Again  the  fantastic  fiddle 

Inspires  colossal  boots, 
And  the  royal  double  shuffle 

Is  done  by  spectral  mutes, — 
Again  they  swing  their  partners, 

And  the  tameless  camas  lends 
Its  breath  to  culture's  cocktail, 

As  the  music  sways  and  blends. 

It  was  thus,  at  times,  that  Bacchus, 

The  rosy  god  and  fair, 
With  wreathen,  magic  thyrsus 

Invoked  wild  revel  there ; 
But  above  his  satyr-dances, 

The  golden  purple  gone, 
The  high  patrician  pleasures 

Around  the  camp  were  thrown. 

For  many  a  bloomy  maiden 

The  mountain  ranches  gave 
To  grace  the  Olympic  banquets 

And  crown  the  free  and  brave, 
And  the  knights  of  storied  gulches, 

Undecked  of  plume  or  sword, 
Went  dashing  down  the  middle 

With  the  girls  their  hearts  adored. 
153 


There  was  one  called  "  Judge,"  a  sinner, 

Unknown  to  Coke  or  Kent, 
Unless  those  lofty  spirits 

With  ruby  "  smashes  "  blent: 
"  Here's  the  Judge,"  they  said  sedately, 

"  Here's  old  Constitutional  Law  " — 
And  they  left  him  knotty  questions 

Of  "  euchre,"  "  sledge  "  or  «  draw." 

They  had  a  favored  preacher, 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Colt, 
From  firstly  up  to  sixthly 

An  ethical  thunderbolt: 
"  Handy,"  they  said,  "  at  funerals," 

And  weddings  they  seldom  had, 
Although  the  census  flourished 

Spontaneously  bad. 

Perhaps  'twas  a  flower  of  fancy, 

A  freak  of  sentiment, 
To  invoke  the  grisly  shadow 

In  the  miner's  merry  tent, — 
Or  a  subtle  and  sage  opinion 

That  something  must  be  done 
To  anchor  the  camp  in  hist'ry 

And  give  it  business  tone; — 

For  they  gave  the  Lord  his  acre, 

A  quaint,  off-hand  affair, 
In  the  shade  of  the  yellow  willows 

On  the  rocky  flat  down  there; 
153 


And  many  a  careless  miner. 
With  a  hole  in  his  shirt  of  gray, 
Was  borne  there,  mute  and  gory, 
From  the  quick  and  deadly  fray. 

They  were  followers  of  fortune, 

And  slept  in  their  boots  at  last, 
All  ready  to  waltz  to  glory 

At  Gabriel's  final  blast; 
They  played  high  stakes,  and  lost  them, 

Just  held  the  cards  to  "  stand," 
And  they  passed  their  chips,  like  Christians, 

When  Death  raised  a  cold  top  hand. 

But  now  the  famous  gulches, 

From  the  Spanish  to  Bamboo, 
Are  but  yawning  emptinesses 

Round  the  wreck  of  Kangaroo, — 
With  gleaming,  grand  golgothas 

Of  tailings,  heap  and  heap, 
Where  the  miner's  sturdy  rocker 

Put  the  "  yellow  boys  "  to  sleep. 

The  days  go  on  as  ever, 

The  birds  sing  in  their  time, 
And  the  clear,  untroubled  waters 

Resume  their  golden  chime; 
But  the  strong,  rude  throng  of  toilers, 

The  few  that  now  remain, 
Are  scattered  from  here  to  limbo, 

O'er  many  a  land  and  main. 
154 


Rosebay  and  manzanita, 

With  a  cheerful  red  and  green, 
Have  woven  o'er  the  hillsides 

A  bright  and  pretty  screen; 
And  those  by  the  willows  sleeping 

Would  never  wake  nor  swear, 
If  the  hated  Chinese  lingo 

Did  not  cruise  along  the  air. 

The  roaring  days  are  over, 

The  golden  sands  have  run, 
The  fiddler  has  his  guerdon, 

While  the  boys  have  had  their  fun ; 
But  there  were  pay-streaks  of  manhood 

In  their  bold  hearts,  we  know, 
Down  close  to  the  solid  bed-rock, 

And  not  for  surface  show. 


MEMALUSE  ISLAND 

[This  island  lying  in  the  Columbia  River  has  since  time  im- 
memorial been  the  burying  ground  of  the  Indians.] 

Where  the  King  of  Hesperian  rivers, 

Columbia,  with  glimmering  sweep, 
And  a  passionate  bosom  that  quivers 

In  a  dream  of  the  mystical  deep, 
Exults  in  his  empire  eternal 

And  the  myriad  rush  of  his  waves, 
Is  an  island  of  sadness  supernal — 

A  desolate  kingdom  of  graves; 
155 


And  its  eagles  are  pallid  and  holy. 
And  they  circle  above  it  so  slowly — 

Like  the  wraiths  of  its  guardian  braves ! 

An  Avalon  fair  as  that  other 

Where  the  lances  of  Camelot  rest — 
The  King  and  each  chivalrous  brother 

With  the  plumage  of  fame  on  his  crest — 
Is  the  isle  of  our  bountiful  river, 

In  its  calm,  where  commotion  is  rife, 
Like  a  finger  of  warning  forever 

On  the  querulous  lips  of  life; 
While  the  waters  around  it  intoning 
Go  sadly  and  mingle  their  moaning 

With  a  resonant  paean  of  strife. 

And  a  magical  scene  for  its  story 

Around  you  enchants  and  appalls 
With  the  barbarous  gloom  and  the  glory 

Of  the  bold  and  embattled  walls, 
Where  the  host  of  the  waters,  advancing 

Through  the  shadowy  ajons  of  time, 
Has  resoundingly  marched  by  the  glancing 

Of  innumerous  arms  sublime; — 
While  a  whimsical  legend  has  faltered 
On  its  grandeur  undimmed  and  unaltered — 

And  passed  like  a  hurrying  mime! 

As  the  firs,  with  their  banners  uplifted, 
Are  delayed  like  an  army  in  prayer, 
156 


While  the  vapors  of  battle  are  drifted 

In  the  gloom  of  their  Gothic  hair, 
And  a  mountain  in  mail  uprising, 

The  Attila  of  Oregon  lands, 
Seems  to  stand  like  a  chieftain  advising 

With  his  fierce  and  untamable  bands, 
And  to  menace  the  vales  that  serenely 
Repose  by  Willamette,  the  queenly 

Protectress  of  cereal  lands. 

In  the  days  that  have  faded  to  gloaming, 

In  the  plaintive  traditional  years, 
'Twas  the  end  of  a  marvellous  roaming, 

A  retreat  from  avenging  spears. 
It  was  there — when  the  moon  was  at  setting, 

And  the  shadows  were  solemn  and  strange — 
While  the  peaks,  in  their  silvery  fretting, 

Were  the  priests  of  a  ghostly  range, 
That  the  fleets  came  weirdly  sailing 
With  the  songs  of  the  dirge,  and  the  wailing 

Of  the  dark  immemorial  change. 

For  the  warrior,  all  crimson  from  battle, 

And  the  maid,  with  her  lingering  smile, 
As  the  child  that  had  worshipped  the  rattle 

Of  the  arrows — were  borne  to  the  isle ! 
And  they  died  in  a  fate  as  uncertain 

As  the  flickering,  funeral  glare 
Of  the  torches  that  painted  the  curtain 

Of  the  sorrowing  midnight  air: — 
But  the  silent  and  sailing  eagle 

157 


Was  the  guard  of  a  slumber  as  regal 
As  the  Parian  marbles  declare. 

And  the  muttering,  terrible  thunder 

Has  recoiled  from  its  reverent  shore, 
And  the  lightnings  have  passed  in  their  wonder 

With  their  sabres  just  flashing  o'er! 
While  the  Winters  have  crowned  it  so  rarely 

With  the  wreath  of  the  shimmering  snows, 
That  the  sun,  in  returning,  might  fairly 

Have  neglected  its  kingly  repose, 
Where  the  dark  and  disconsolate  water, 
With  its  chant  of  the  chase  and  the  slaughter, 

Like  a  lullaby  flows  and  flows. 

And  the  Spring  never  comes,  with  the  daisies 

In  the  glow  of  her  bivouac, 
But  she  lingers  about  it,  and  raises 

A  memorial  arch  on  her  track. 
And  the  beautiful  mists  that  surround  it 

With  a  lustre  of  beaded  brows 
Are  renewing  the  flowers  that  found  it 

With  the  dew  of  their  nightly  VQWS; 
While  so  tenderly  passes  the  river, 
With  the  braid  of  the  sun  on  his  quiver, 

That  the  slumberers  never  arouse. 

The  romance  of  the  red  man  is  ended, 
And  the  shade  of  his  primitive  bark, 

With  the  mists  of  eternity  blended, 
Is  a  part  of  its  dusk  and  its  dark; 
158 


And  the  spray  of  the  thundering  steamer 

Is  the  glist  of  our  loftier  dream, 
And  the  plume  of  its  vapory  streamer. 

But  a  shadow  of  things  that  seem ; 
For  the  highway  of  trade  and  of  science 
Is  only  a  trail  and  a  reliance 

For  the  wants  that  confusedly  teem. 

And  I  hear,  in  the  song  of  the  river, 

As  it  washes  the  funeral  isle, 
The  response  of  this  song — which  is  ever 

The  prophetic  refrain  of  the  Nile; 
"  O  the  lands  may  be  braided  together 

And  the  East  lend  its  rose  to  the  West, 
But  the  nations  will  pause  and  ask  whether 

The  rewards  they  have  sought  are  the  best; 
For  the  sands  of  the  desert  blow  over 
And  the  ashes  of  centuries  cover 

Imperial  Thebes  with  the  rest. 

"  While  the  kingdoms  have  gone  like  the  shadows 

That  are  thrown  on  the  flowering  grass 
When  the  cloudlets  wing  over  the  meadows 

With  a  tremulous  kiss  as  they  pass, 
I  have  listened  to  love  and  to  laughter, 

I  have  mourned  with  the  nations  in  tears, 
But  the  heart  has  not  changed,  nor  hereafter 

Will  it  change  in  the  cycles  of  years ; 
And  the  mansions  of  thought  that  are  builded, 
What  are  they  but  cloud  that  is  gilded — 

To  the  soul  with  its  sorrow  and  fears? 
159 


"  And  alas  for  thy  daring,  O  mortal ! 

Since  the  dead  must  go  down  to  the  dead, 
If  thy  prescience  shall  darken  the  portal 

Where  the  lustres  eternal  are  shed; 
For  thy  path  may  ascend  to  the  planets, 

And  away  to  the  fountains  of  light 
In  disdain  of  the  earth  and  the  granites 

Where  thy  fortunes  are  builded  aright; 
But  thy  science — all  wingless  and  broken — 
Shall  return,  and  with  never  a  token 

Of  its  long  and  delirious  flight  1 " 


AT  LINNTON'S  SHAMBLES 

[At  Linnton,  a  village  on  the  Willamette,  is  located  an 
abattoir,  where  herds  of  Oregon  cayuses  are  introduced 
through  the  canning  route  to  the  quartermasters  of  the  armies 
of  the  world.] 

With  its  blue  seas  afoam  and  its  islands  aglow 

And  the  continents  loud  with  the  clamor  of  life, 
O,  whither,  O,  whither,  as  dim  cycles  flow, 

Careereth  the  earth  with  its  passion  and  strife? 
As  if  lost  in  the  night,  to  each  other  we  call, 

With  lips  moist  with  kisses  or  pallid  with  fear; 
But  out  of  the  dark  comes  no  answer  at  all, 

No  solace  from  oracle,  prophet  or  seer. 

We  are  far  from  the  highway;  our  landmarks  are 

lost, 

And  the  stars  reel  above  us  in  glimmering  dance, 
160 


While  our  bacchanal  torches,  in  high  revel  tossed, 
Portray  that  in  darkness  and  doubt  we  advance ; 

Half  God  and  half  beast,  we  achieve  what  we  dare, 
Defy  every  law  in  a  rapture  of  sin — 

Then  away  to  our  fanes  with  our  hot  bosoms  bare, 
As  if  scourging  and  shrieking  nepenthe  might  win ! 

Alas,  it  was  yesterday  only  I  saw 

How  surely  that  people  are  drifting  astray, 
From  dreams  that  were  cherished,  from  loves  that 

were  law, 

And  out  o'er  the  battlements  swarming  away ; 
For  at  Linnton,  down  there  where  the  shimmering 

tide 

Of  the  great  river  sweeps  to  the  hoarse-calling  sea, 
Low  singing,  its  murmur  of  anguish  to  hide, 

Are  the  red,  reeking  shambles  the  strange  times 
decree. 

A  herd  of  wild  horses,  with  streaming,  tossed  manes, 

In  a  grass  field  anear  were  disporting  at  will, 
For  the  blood  of  Arabia  throbbed  in  their  veins, 
As  they  swept  like  a  storm  round  the  slope  of  the 

hill. 

They  were  exiles  from  uplands  beyond  the  Cascades, 
The  pampas  of  sagebrush  and  bunchgrass  their 

home, 
Where  only  the  stealthy  coyote  invades 

And  the  jumper  scents  the  wild  pastures  they 

roam. 
11  161 


How  glad  were  their  gambols  along  the  rich  fields 
In  the  glory  of  sunlight  that  thrilled  the  grass 


For  the  beauty  and  ardor  that  sweet  freedom  yields 
Were  theirs,  as  they  raced  with  the  sun  and  the 

breeze ; 

For  the  strain  of  the  racers  had  moulded  their  limbs 
And  arched  their  proud  necks  with  a  thunderous 

might 

Which  flamed  in  their  nostrils,  whose  tremulous  rims 
Expanded  and  quivered  with  royal  delight. 

O,  that  life  of  the  plains!  the  jubilant  rush 

Of  the  unbitted  steeds  on  the  deep-rooted  turf, 
Like  the  mad  waves  careering  when  storms  wake  the 

hush 

Of  the  slumbering  ocean  in  billow  and  surf; 
How   they   leaped   in   their   pride,   how   their  black 

banners  streamed; 
For  the  world  was   still  young  in  the  original 

waste — 

The  dim  mountain  vistas  with  glamour  bedreamed, 
And  the  wind  and  the  waters  exultant  and  chaste. 

In  time  the  young  rev'lers  must  yield  to  the  rein 
And  their  beauty  and  vigor  inure  to  men's  needs, 

For  the  splendor  and  dash  of  the  life  of  the  plain 
Is  the  glowing  romance  that  preludes  after-deeds. 

But  hark !  from  the  tumult  of  cities  is  borne 

On  the  bland  morning  breezes,  the  rumble  and  roar 
162 


Of  the  steam-car  and  trolley — ah!  let  us  mourn, 
For  the  dutiful  day  of  the  courser  is  o'er. 

And    hearken!   With  ominous  whisper  and  hum, 

The  gleaming  road-eagles,  the  motor-cars,  pass, 
And  the  horse  bows  his  head  with  disaster  o'ercome, 

For  his  destiny's  over,  alas  and  alas ! 
And  now  in  this  pasture  at  Linnton  behold 

The  herd  that  is  doomed  for  the  shambles  hard  by, 
With  October's  clear  sunlight  of  mellowest  gold 

On  their  handsome  coats  playing  and  kindling  each 
eye. 

They  dreamed  not  of  fate,  how  the  cannibal  man 

Would  requite  the  devotion  of  glorious  years — 
Put  sentiment,  honor  and  worth  in  a  "  can," 

With  hardly  the  grace  of  reptilian  tears. 
O!  shades  of  Bucephalus,  splendid  in  war, 

Of  the  steeds  that  bore  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
And  to  love's  consummation  the  young  Lochinvar, 

Are  we  smitten  with  madness,  incurable  blight? 

Arise,  Rozinante,  bring  Quixote  again, 

Bold  champion  of  maidens  and  scourger  of  wrong, 

Let  him  ride  down  the  crazy  delusions  of  men 
And  deliver  the  weak  from  the  tyrannous  strong. 

O   valor  and  beauty,  and  battle  and  love, 

Shall  the  ghouls  have  the  horse  ax>d  no  hades  have 
them, 


196 


Whom  the  stars,   as  they  clash  their  gold  lances 

above, 

And  the  winds  and  the  waves  in  their  anger  con- 
demn? 

May  Pegasus  fiery,  from  Castaly's  stream, 

Drive  hideous  nightmares  to  rend  their  repose 

Till  their  very  hair  stiffens  in  struggles  to  scream, 
As  the  pale  horse  shall  bear  them  to  Stygian  woes. 


A  LEGEND  OF  ARIZONA 

In  the  region  of  chartless  land  that  lies 
Far  off  in  a  dream  of  Hesptepnan  skies; 
By  the  rivers  that,  drifting  golden  lees, 
Bear  beauty  and  song  to  the  Mexic  seas — 

I  have  sat  in  the  miner's  bivouac 
When  night  with  its  stars  like  a  psalm  unrolled, 

And  heard,  as  he  leaned  on  his  grimy  pack, 
A  miner  discourse  on  the  Mount  of  Gold. 

While  the  howl  of  the  wolf  was  faint  and  far, 
As  the  moon,  like  a  ship,  from  star  to  star 
Sailed  on — and  the  plain,  with  a  sea-like  sweep, 
Lay  silent  and  wide  in  its  mystic  sleep ; 

And  the  river  below  in  an  undertone 
Hummed  sweetly,  and,  chiming  its  cymbals,  sang 

Of  a  sorrowful  land  that  spreads  alone 
Where  oceans  have  marched  and  the  old  wars  rang. 

164 


And  the  glorified  peaks  stood  high  and  white, 
Like  Kings  that  were  called  to  the  Courts  of  Night ; 
And  the  voices  of  mystery  seemed  to  swell 
On  the  wind  in  the  pines  as  it  rose  and  fell; 

For  thus  near  the  pulsing  throbs  of  earth 
The  tale  of  the  miner  was  fitly  told — 

With  never  a  sneer  or  a  sound  of  mirth 
From  those  who  had  battled  and  toiled  for  gold. 

The  Mountain  of  Gold  was  said  to  stand 
Away  in  the  depths  of  a  solemn  land 
Which  the  rivers  forget  as  they  bend  afar 
On  the  glimmering  track  of  the  evening  star; 

While  ever,  like  dust  of  the  unhallowed  dead, 
The  sands  of  the  desert  arise  in  clouds, 

And  gather  and  sweep  with  a  ghostly  thread 
Around  it,  and  rustle  like  dreary  shrouds. 

And  a  skeleton  guard  of  mountain  bleak, 
Where  the  brown  vulture  dozes  and  whets  his  beak, 
Defends  it,  and  hoards  within  grizzly  arms 
The  dazzle  of  splendor  and  virgin  charms 

That  no  one  has  seen  but  those  priests  of  the  sun 
Who  fled  from  the  sword  of  the  Spanish  knight, 

And  whose  shadows  still,  when  the  day  is  done, 
Kneel  there  on  the  steps  of  their  altar  bright! 

The  gold  was  sought,  but  the  seeker  lost; 
And  his  ashes  are  wearily,  wearily  tossed 
With  the  sands  as  they  drift  in  eternal  unrest 

165 


As  if  ever  astray  in  the  hopeless  quest, — 

While  a  glamour  of  mystery  strangely  shines 

Where  the  dead  have  been  strewn  and  the  living 

stray, 
And  the  gorges  are  rich  with  exhaustless  mines 

That  hoard  their  treasure  unto  this  day 

Untouched,  as  our  hearts  and  hopes  decay. 

And  the  robber  Apache  hovers  far 
On  the  thundering  chase  o'er  the  trail  of  war, 
As  the  shark  of  the  desert,  gaunt  and  gray, 
Slips  by  like  a  shade  to  his  distant  prey; 

Yet  waiting  for  all,  on  the  yellow  breast 
Of  the  dead  and  desolate  waste,  the  prize 

Of  the  Mountain  of  Gold  is  said  to  rest 
Like  a  star  that  has  dropped  from  the  gracious 
skies ; — 

Perhaps  it  is  only  a  miner's  theme — 

The  glint  of  some  old  explorer's  dream; 

As  clouds  in  the  magical  sunset  shine, 

Like  islands  of  silver  in  seas  of  wine — 

But  may  he  not  think,  when  the  placer  fails, 

And  poverty  lurks  on  the  olden  trails, 

That  treasures  barbaric  and  joy  untold 

Are  shining  beyond  in  the  Mountain  of  Gold? 


109 


Occasional  Poems 


HAEC  OLIM  MEMINISSE  JUVABIT 
PLANTING  OF  THE  PINE 

[Read  June  17,  1895,  at  the  Willamette  University  on  occa- 
sion of  planting  the  class  tree.] 

"And  he  shall  be  like  a  tree  planted  by  the  rivers  of 
waters."— PSALM  i,  2. 

Wave,  Hermes,  wave  thy  wreathen  wand, 
And  call  the  exiled  gods  once  more    • 
From  dreamful  lands  that  lie  beyond 

The  wailing  Acherontic  shore, — 
The  ever-young  and  ever-fair, 
Whose  leafy  brows  and  wave-swept  hair 
The  laureled  minstrels,  blithe  and  fond, 
Sang  in  sweet  numbers  o'er  and  o'er. 

Satyr  and  nymph  and  oread  call, 

And  all  the  race  of  rugged  Pan, 
By  streams  that  weave  the  madrigal, 

Through  groves  Sabean  breezes  fan. 
Lure  them,  O  Hermes !  with  the  shell 
Which  breathed  of  old  a  magic  spell 
That  made  the  Argus  eyelids  fall, 

And  loosed  the  Argive  maiden's  ban ! 


So  lead  them  hither,  let  them  move 

Among  us  on  this  festal  day, 
Mystic  as  shadows  in  a  grove 

Where  tressy  gleams  of  sunshine  stray, 
And  seen  alone  by  those  who  keep 
Pale  watches  with  the  bards  that  sleep 
In  the  bright  garlands  genius  wove 

When  Greece  was  young  and  gods  held  sway. 

Listen!  there  is  a  stir  of  leaves, 

And  rustling,  as  of  flowers  strewn, 
And  wildwood  odors  from  the  sheaves 

Of  bloomy  verse,  all  blent  and  blown ; — 
Naiads  and  dryads — all  are  here, 
And  fauns  that  whisk  the  furry  ear, 
And  many  a  reed-led  chorus  grieves 

O'er  days  discrowned    and  fanes  o'erthrown. 

And  now  their  breezy  murmurs  hail 
The  planting  of  the  votive  pine: — 

Demeter  spreads  a  damask  veil, 
The  handmaid  spills  an  opal  wine; 

Since  days  were  born  and  years  began, 

The  pine* was  sacred  unto  Pan, 

And  not  a  mystic  rite  shall  fail 
To  greet  this  scion  of  the  line. 

Lo,  it  is  done!    The  beauteous  throng 
With  sylvan  whispers  slowly  parts — * 

Sweet  as  a  fading  wave  of  song 
That  lingers  in  enraptured  hearts 
170 


When  nights  are  still,  and  moonlight  falls 
On  arches  gray,  on  broken  walls, 
And  every  thought  that  drifts  along 
A  tint  of  waning  life  imparts. 

A  scent  of  myrtle,  rose  and  myrrh, 

And  ivy  brows  and  musky  hair 
Floats  faintly  by,  and  now  the  stir 

Of  Fancy  shakes  the  perfumed  air: — 
And  o'er  the  blue  Hellenic  seas 
The  burning  clouds  of  mysteries 
Sail  on,  and  waft  the  worshipper 

To  shrines  that  glimmer  everywhere. 

For  Youth  is  all  devout  and  Greek, 

A  dreamer,  crescent-browed  and  curled, 

To  whom  woods,  winds  and  waters  speak 
The  language  of  a  poet's  world; 

So  we  to  classic  shades  invoke, 

With  speech,  and  song,  and  altar  smoke, 

The  glory  of  a  race  antique 

While  yet  our  waiting  sail  is  furled. 

Around  our  isle  of  dreamland  lies 
The  sweep  of  beryl-bosomed  seas, 

And  Hera's  gold  and  purple  skies 
Stoop  over  it; — the  languid  breeze 

Loiters  with  laughter's  rippling  tone, 

And  music  fading  into  moan, 

'Mid  waves,  with  sensuous  sweet  sighs, 
The  bannered  beauty  of  the  trees. 
171 


To  past  and  future,  lo!  we  raise 
A  green  memorial  and  a  fane; 
There  glowing  nymphs  and  sheeny  fays 
Shall  sleep  in  moonlight's  silver  rain, 
And  floating  sun  and  shadow  play 
When  we  are  sailing  far  away — 
Sailing  the  sapphire  straits  and  bays 
That  sparkle  round  Life's  rocky  main. 

No  marble  monolith  is  ours, 

Nor  granite  from  the  Syenic  caves, 

No  weary  Sphinx  whose  dark  brow  lowers 
Where  gray  sand  drifts  in  arid  waves; 

But,  from  its  mountain  home,  the  pine 

A  living  monument  doth  shine, 

That  breathes  an  odor  rich  as  flowers 
When  they  are  laid  in  wintry  graves. 

All  honor  to  the  sylvan  race, 
The  beautiful,  erect  and  free! 

They  stood  in  Eden's  glow  and  grace, 
And  Life  and  Death  were  named  a  tree ! 

Their  beauty  was  a  sacrament, — 

At  once  a  temple  and  a  tent; 

The  tree  was  man's  first  dwelling-place 
And  sang  his  parting  threnody. 

They  left  their  decorated  crests 
In  Homer's  song  and  Holy  Writ, 

And  Prophecy  beneath  them  rests 

When  all  t\e  boding  stars  are  lit; — 

172 


All  down  the  columned  years  they  stand 
In  robes  of  splendor  and  command — 
Ambassadors  of  high  behests 

While  rosy  summers  flame  and  flit. 

Beneath  a  date-grove's  pleasant  shade, 

At  Elim  Israel  reposed 
And  under  oaks  of  Mamre  laid 

The  wandering  of  Abram  closed; 
And  dark  Deborah,  weird  and  calm, 
Near  Ramah  sat  beneath  her  palm, 
And  in  perspective  thought  arrayed 

The  fates  by  Israel's  god  imposed. 

The  Druid  and  Dodona  oaks, 

How  gloomily  their  arms  extend 
Above  the  pagan  altar  smokes 

That  priest  and  priestesses  attend! 
How  waves  the  windy  beech  that  grows 
Hard  by  the  Scaean  gate,  and  throws 
A  plaintive  shade,  while  shouts  and  strokes 
Storm  on  till  epic  thunders  end! 

Again  Olympian  gods  are  met 

In  robes  that  sweep  and  shine  like  flame, 
And  lo,  Athene's  olive,  set 

In  Attic  soil,  has  given  a  name 
To  Athens;  and  we  turn,  and  lo, 
Where  Babylonian  waters  flow, 
Hushed  harps,  on  willows  hung,  are  wet 

With  tears  of  sorrow  and  of  shame! 
173 


Enough!    The  glory  of  the  trees 

In  every  age  of  fate  fulfils, 
And*  moves  through  all  the  harmonies 

Of  speech  that  soars  and  song  that  thrills, 
And  round  this  fair  memorial 
'Tis  fit  that  we  these  names  should  call, 
Who  give  to  sun  and  cloud  and  breeze 

A  native  monarch  of  our  hills. 

Oh,  proudly  in  the  Siskiyous 

His  princely  tribes  arise  and  reign, 

And  get  delight  of  summer  dews 

And  strength  of  winter's  toiling  strain — 

While  bright  Madrones,  at  their  side, 

Like  courtly  princesses  abide 

And  tell  the  scarlet  beads  they  use 
As  symbols  of  a  passion  slain. 

All  round  the  varied  forest  sweeps 

A  cloud  of  changing  loveliness, 
Where  June's  adorning  sunlight  sleeps 

On  gleamy  boughs  of  braided  tress, 
And  rosebay  lights  the  leafy  gloom 
With  torches  of  auroral  bloom, 
And  the  live  panther,  lurking,  creeps 

With  footsteps  soft  as  a  caress. 

And  there,  like  some  barbaric  king, 
All  mailed  in  bronze-red  dragon  scales, 

The  pine  tree  towers — right  glad  to  fling 
His  royal  ensigns  to  the  gales, 
TO 


And,  in  his  robes  of  golden  green 
That  glisten  with  a  vibrant  sheen, 
And  garnished  with  bright  cones  that  swing 
Like  jewels,  over  all  prevails! 

The  Gothic  minstrel  of  the  woods, 

He  sings  the  lightest  lullaby, 
Or,  swept  by  Winter's  fitful  moods, 

The  battle  chants,  and  loud  and  high 
The  Pyrrhic  numbers  rise  and  roll 
To  midnight  stars,  and  Earth's  great  soul 
Wails  in  the  solemn  interludes 

Of  death  and  woe  that  never  die. 

The  shriek  of  ships,  the  war  of  waves, 

The  fury  of  the  blanching  surge, 
The  desolation  of  lone  graves, 

The  shouts  that  still  the  onset  urge, 
The  sob  of  maidens  in  despair, 
All  saddest  sounds  of  earth  and  air, 
The  harp  of  Thor  o'er  peaks  and  caves, 
Blend  in  the  paean  and  the  dirge. 

So,  to  the  Academic  hill 

We  bring  a  scion  of  the  breed 
To  be,  alike  in  good  or  ill, 

A  shrine,  a  Pharos,  and  a  creed, 
Whose  lifting  crest  and  wider  reach 
Of  branch  and  plume  shall  ever  teach 
Our  lives  to  rise,  and  broaden  still 

In  wider  love  and  nobler  deed, 
175 


And,  as  in  sun  and  cloud  and  storm, 
Caress  of  winds,  and  sweets  of  dew, 

He  shall  arise  a  kinglier  form 

As  days  drift  by,  and  years  renew, 

Our  souls,  in  calm  and  tempest  tried, 

In  higher  mansions  shall  reside, 

And  winter's  gale  and  zephyrs  warm 
Shall  waft  us  on  serene  and  true. 

Returned  from  life's  Olympic  fields, 

Here  shall  our  cherished  bays  be  hung, 
And  here  shall  rest  the  spears  and  shields 
Which  in  the  battle  flashed  and  rung; 
And  here,  when  Dian  fills  her  cup 
And  all  the  panting  stars  are  up, 
Eros  shall  wave  the  bow  he  wields 

While  tender  hearts  to  love  are  strung. 

Adieu,  O  pride  of  mountain  lands ! 

The  long  watch  of  the  years  is  yours, 
While  we  with  one  long  clasp  of  hands 

Pass  from  our  Holy  Mother's  doors; 
Fair  is  the  wreath  that  Memory  brings, 
But  Hope,  on  hyacinthine  wings, 
Will  bear  us  to  enchanted  strands 

Where  the  resounding  ocean  pours. 

Ah!   Life  is  no  Endymion's  sleep, 
Rose^roofed,  in  dear  Meander's  vale; 

But,  clambering  from  steep  to  steep, 
Defiant  of  the  Augurs  pale, 
176 


Like  Perseus  bold,  and  Heracles, 
We  win  the  asphodels  of  ease 
With  labors  long,  and  anguish  deep, 
And  courage  never  born  to  fail. 

The  strongest  fortress  is  the  mind, 

As  wise  Antisthenes  has  said, 
And  in  its  diamond  towers  we  find 

Repose,  when  youth  and  friends  are  fled. 
The  heart's  red  passion-flowers  fade 
And  soft  eyes  lose  their  misty  shade; 
But  crowns  of  amaranthus  twined 

Are  for  the  world  that  knows  no  dead. 

The  voice  that  wandering  lo  heard 

From  the  Caucasian  cliff  and  cloud 
Still  speaks; — unmarred  by  hope  deferred 

The  splendid  Titan  calls  aloud, 
And,  trustful  in  the  coming  morn 
Of  right  and  truth,  his  laugh  of  scorn 
Rings  when  the  thunder's  wrath  is  stirred, 
And  lightnings  wreathe  his  tempest  shroud. 

High  on  the  future's  blue  fa9ade 

Superb  intaglios  we  engrave, 
And  dreams  in  rich  mosaic  laid 

Adorn  the  tessellated  pave. 
Wild  is  the  light  that  streams  upon 
The  lofty  pillared  propylon, 
With  many  a  mystic  scene  portrayed 

On  sculptured  frieze  and  architrave. 
12  177 


The  banquet  of  the  gods  survives, 

Though  mixed  with  marring  smoke  and  flame, 
While  over  us  the  tempest  drives 

With  flick' ring  fires  and  clouds  of  blame; 
But,  thanks  to  that  Promethean  deed, 
The  gates  are  all  ajar  that  lead 
To  amaranthine  hopes  and  lives 

And  gorgeous  firmaments  of  fame. 


POEM 

[Read    before    the    Alumni    of    Willamette    University, 
Wednesday,  June  25,  1873.] 

I. 

With  trailing  lance  and  battle  stain 
We  comje  from  many  a  path  of  pain 
Where  wrestling  factions  live  at  war 
And  ever  clash  with  angry  jar: 
Home  from  the  front,  our  brief  respite 
Must  breathe  no  odor  of  the  fight. 

No  haughty  banners  now  we  bear, 
Whose  rustling  challenge  wooes  the  air; 
Hushed  is  the  moan  of  bitterness — 
Unheard  the  vaunting  of  success: 
With  olive  crowns  of  truce  we  come — 
Defeat  and  victory  are  one. 

Hail,  Holy  Mother!  here  we  bring 
All  that  is  left  of  wandering. 

178 


With  wounded  pace  and  broken  file, 
Returning  still  to  crave  thy  smile, 
Whose  radiance  like  stars  we  wear 
Through  all  the  fortunes  of  the  year. 

"  What  of  the  night?  "  you  fain  would  ask, 
"  What  of  the  long  and  cruel  task? 
What  of  the  sword  and  armor  bright 
I  gave  to  shield  you  through  the  fight? 
Thy  brothers,  sisters,  why  delay 
Their  coming  feet  along  the  way?  " 

The  night  was  wilder  than  we  dreamed, 
The  task  was  harder  than  it  seemed, 
Thy  gallant  armor  served  us  well 
When  many  a  shower  of  trouble  fell ! 
Our  brothers?    Sisters?    Scattered  wide, 
Full  many  struggle  with  the  tide. 

Amidst  the  tumult  of  the  day, 

A  few  fell,  weary,  by  the  way, 

No  touch  could  rouse  them, — we  did  weep 

To  leave  them  lingering  still  in  sleep; 

Soothed  in  the  daisied  lap  of  earth, 

They  know  no  anger,  pain  or  mirth. 

The  summer  sky  with  tender  grace 
Stoops  o'er  each  hallowed  resting  place, 
The  fragrant  woof  of  flower  and  spray 
Makes  them  forgetful  of  the  clay, 
And  straying  Zephyr  softly  says — 
"  Wait  not  for  them  whom  Death  delays ! " 

179 


Ah!    Fair  Pauline,  if  worth  could  charm 
The  march  of  Death,  or  stay  his  arm, 
Thy  sad,  poetic  eye  to-day 
Would  warm  us  with  its  friendly  ray, 
And  Addie's  mild  and  winning  face 
Shine  on  us  from  yon  vacant  place. 

Could  manhood's  bold,  aspiring  heart 

Repel  the  lurking  monster's  dart, 

The  world's  tough  problems  yet  might  know 

The  strength  of  Alva's  honest  blow. 

Nor  I  had  twined  this  drooping  wreath 

So  illy  matched  with  those  beneath. 

II. 

The  Summer,  couched  upon  the  hills, 
Dreams  on  in  happy,  golden  moods; 

Her  yellow  tresses  float  in  rills 
And  tangle  in  the  drowsy  woods. 

Yet  somewhere  in  the  azure  world 

The  winds  a  dying  tryst  may  keep — 

Somewhere  the  tempest's  wings  are  furled, 
Somewhere  the  sheathed  lightnings  sleep. 

And  knowing  this,  we  always  turn 

A  kinder  face  upon  the  one 
Whose  incense  wastes  within  its  urn, 

Whose  fragrant  life  is  swiftly  run. 
180 


The  breath  of  Immortality 

But  withers  human  thought,  we  love 

The  Summer  smouldering  on  the  lea, 
The  mournful  death-song  of  the  dove. 

Torn  from  the  book  of  Time,  the  hour 

Whirls  glimmering  through  the  vault  of  years, 

More  lovely  that  the  night  must  lower, 
And  painted  with  the  doom  it  nears. 

Who  shall  repair  what  fate  has  torn — 

The  petals  of  our  morn  restore? 
Ah !  in  the  womb  of  years  unborn 

Our  Past  shall  blossom  nevermore! 

Along  the  misty  coast,  with  feet 

Forever  in  the  dim  advance, 
The  pilgrim  spirit  shall  not  meet 

The  vanished  form  of  Circumstance: 

Yet  often  when  the  day  declines, 

And  twilight's  purple  hush  has  come, 

The  school  bell's  sweet,  familiar  chimes 
Across  the  gulf  are  gently  swung. 

Blown  o'er  the  mountain's  smoky  crest, 
Young  voices  fill  the  pleasant  void; 

The  waves  of  laughter, — rippling  zest 
Of  life  and  labor  are  enjoyed. 
181 


Not  dead,  but  distant,  then  they  seem, 

Those  careless  merry  days  of  old, 
Whose  drifting  echoes  round  us  teem 

And  ring  like  rhythmic  bells  of  gold. 

Amid  the  iron  speech  of  war 

Their  music  is  not  wholly  lost, 
Subdued  beneath  that  angry  star 

Where  manhood's  sterner  fates  are  tosied. 

O!  when  you  paint  a  heaven  for  me, 

With  clustering  pleasures  brightly  strewn, 

Restore  from  faithful  memory 

Some  semblance  of  the  happy  zone 

Where  first  the  chrysalis  of  Thought 
Rose  flashing  from  its  orb  of  night, 

Where  Friendship's  gordian  tie  was  wrought 
Of  hearts  that  mingled  free  as  light. 

III. 

We  are  met  to  be  merry,  dear  friends,  and  must  turn 
From  stars  now  extinguished  to  others  that  burn. 
For  the  woe  of  the  wise  is  but  passing  and  brief, 
While  Faith  cannot  brook  the  dominion  of  Grief. 
We  must  catch  the  bright  sparkles  that  sprinkle  the 

wave, 

Not  dive  for  cool  shadows  in  grotto  and  cave. 
Let  us  move  in  those  muscular  days  of  the  past, 
When  few  were  the  shadows  that  cottages  cast 

182 


On  the  wild,  virgin  turf  of  this  wonderful  land 
That  has  laughed  at  the  touch  of  the  husbandman's 

hand : 

When  Commercial  Street  (ever  so  dusty  just  now), 
Would  have  gladdened  the  heart  of  an  Irishman's 

cow; 

When  the  Mayor  went  fishing,  and  went  all  alone, 
And  business  was  dull  'til  the  Mayor  came  home; 
When  Willamette,  the  pet  of  the  valley,  was  free — 
Unvexed  in  its  flowery  path  to  the  sea ; 
And  when,  nursed  in  the  lap  of  the  green  wilderness, 
Alma  Mater  grew  strong  in  its  savage  caress. 

Quite  a  brilliant  affair  in  that  primitive  day, 

Was   the   weather-stained   structure   once   over  the 

way; 
And  sweet  were  the  chimes  that  were  strewn  on  the 

gale 

On  that  morn,  when  the  President,  seizing  a  rail 
With  the  grip  of  a  Theseus,  pounded  the  wall 
'Til  the  old  University  had  a  close  call. 
Then  he  went  to  the  chapel  and  dusted  his  chair, 
Looked  out  at  the  window  and  then  at  the  stair, 
But  never  the  music  of  jubilant  feet 
Woke  the  silence  that  reigned  in  the  desolate  street. 
Thus   the  hours  crept  on, — the  Professors  looked 

wild, 

Were  persuasive  by  turns,  and  had  even  compiled 
More  lessons  than  one,  in  whose  word-woven  clouds 
Hung  the  lightnings   of  vengeance  to  hurry  the 

crowds, 

183 


And  the  day  was  consumed,  and  its  ashes  in  rain 
Of  luminous  purple  were  sown  on  the  plain. 
The  Trustees'  Convention,  laborious  and  late, 
Shook  the  Chapel  that  night  with  a  storm  of  debate. 
"  That  our  youth  may  need  College,"  said  one,  "  yet 

in  truth 

Is  our  College  as  loudly  demandant  of  youth." 
And  marching  at  once  o'er  the  crest  of  denial, 
Suggested  to  give  the  young  natives  a  trial. 
Ingenuity  shone  through  the  latter  remark, 
And  it  lit  the  conclave  like  a  scintillant  spark; 
And  the  fiat  went  forth  to  the  barbarous  camp 
'Ere  the  dew  on  the  camas  lay  sparkling  and  damp. 
And  the  morrow  was  wild  with  a  prodigal  feast 
That  swallowed  a  hundred  canines  at  the  least. 
Now  these  natives  were  rude,  and  (the  least  of  thieir 

sins, 

On  the  subject  of  vestment  were  partial  to  skins) 
And  the  peltry  hominis  preferred,  as  by  far 
The  noblest  that  Nature's  patrician  can  wear; 
Most  delightful  naivete,  but  frightfully  cool — 
So  the  President  thought — for  a  fashionable  school. 
A  volume  of  edicts  was  issued  just  then, 
Which  still  courts  the  wonder  of  scholarly  men; 
Number  One  intimates  with  considerable  stress 
As  to  amplification  in  matters  of  dress; 
In  the  next  the  Preceptress  just  hints  at  the  wish 
That  young  ladies  beware  of  the  odor  of  fish ! 
Then  the  serpentine  lunch  was  forbidden  till  four, 
And  the  war-whoop  and  scalp-dance  to  regions  in- 
door ; 

184 


While  the  Knights  of  the  Bow  were  requested  to  aim 
Very  low,  when  intent  on  Professional  game! 
Thus  the  soul  of  the  savage  in  vapor  and  beam 
Of  a  second  creation,  grew  bright  with  the  dream 
Of  mental  achievement,  and  Reason  awoke 
At  the  thrill  of  the  D'awning's  miraculous  stroke ; 
Or  in  plebeian  language,  the  Arabic  Digger 
Plunged  "  in  media  Ray  "  and  was  learning  to  figger ; 
And  succeeded  so  well  in  felonious  subtraction 
That  professors  were  driven  almost  to  distraction; 
At  last,  while  in  quest  of  the  roots  of  Greek  verbs, 
They  had  wandered  away  in  a  desert  of  words — 
Away  and  awild  with  such  radical  zeal 
That  they  never  returned  when  a  factional  wheel 
Tossed  a  radical  President  into  the  chair, 
And  radical  officers  everywhere. 

Thus  departed  a  people  of  whom  it  is  said, 
Not  a  youth  could  be  found,  not  extensively  red! 
And  we,  who  fell  not  from  the  wearisome  pace, 
May  exult  to  have  had  a  less  col'rable  case! 
And  such  are  the  tints  of  that  varying  chance 
That  have  garnished  our  Mother's  heroic  advance 
Through  the  scenes  of  transition  as  brilliant  as  quick, 
Till  at  last  we  behold  her  "  a  regular  brick !  " 


Alma    Mater!     Thy   past  has   been   tortured   with 

fears, — 

What  may  we  not  hope  for  the  inrolling  years ! 
For  the  arm  of  the  desert  is  broken,  and  soon 
Our  twilight  shall  flash  with  the  spray  of  the  Noon ! 

185 


As  the  pillared  Sierras  resound  with  the  hoof 

Of  a  steed  that  stays  not  for  their  storm-haunted 

roof, 

O  the  wilderness  dappled  with  harvests  shall  teem 
With  a  fatness  outvying  the  emigrant's  dream, 
Where  so  long  our  sad  sighs  fluttered  out  but  to  die 
In  that  dreary  expanse  all  alone  with  its  sky ! 
And  rich  with  the  drift  of  Pactolian  sand 
Shall  the  billows  of  Industry  carpet  the  land. 
In  her  beauty  barbaric  and  sparkle  of  gold, 
Silver-sandalled  and  fair  as  the  Sheba  of  old, 
See,  the  West  has  gone  out  and  is  wed  to  the  East, 
While  the  songs  of  the  oceans  are  blent  at  the  feast ! 

From  the  crystalline  tongues  of  the  lakes  that  repose 
With  their  woven  embraces  'mid  lingering  snows, 
From  the  silvery  trail  of  the  rivers  that  fall 
By  southern  palmetto  and  fir-guarded  wall, 
Sweeps  the  wind-worried  peean  of  Victory  won: — 
"  Lo,  the  Desert  is  slain !     It  is  done !     It  is  done !  " 

O  Knowledge  that  blossomed  in  Orient  bowers, 

And  in  Attica  loved  thy  Athenian  towers, 

Hither  come  with  thy  star-brt>idered  mysteries,  and 

twine 
Thy  enchantments  around  this  young  priestess  of 

thine ! 

Plant  thy  lilies  of  light  in  the  breast  of  her  youth — 
Her  children  that  kneel  at  the  altar  of  Truth! 
And  we  who  are  facing  the  tempest  of  life, 
Let  us  keep  within  hail  as  ye  flit  through  the  strife ; 

186 


With  a  stroke  and  a  parry  if  foes  should  assail, 
Let  us  fend  our  brave  Mother  through  darkness  and 

gale, 

And  return  when  we  can  to  this  classical  grove 
For  a  new  pledge  of  friendship  and  promise  of  love. 


ASHES  OF  ROSES 

[Read  before  the  Alumni  Association  of  Willamette  Uni- 
versity.] 

"Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes." 

— The  Lotus  Eaten 


A  sweet  hope  blushed  in  the  red  June  roses 
On  the  day  that  we  left  our  college  halls 
For  the  world's  wide  lists  and  the  stormy  closes 
Of  the  old,  old  strife  under  time's  gray  walls; 
And  the  blue  sky  bent  over  land  and  ocean, 
When  out  of  the  distance  a  mail-clad  hand 
And  a  resonant  burst  of  bugle  calls 
Urged  us  away,  with  a  gay  devotion, 
To  the  din  and  dusk  of  a  fateful  strand. 

It  is  well  our  feast  and  memorial  season 

Should  return  with  the  queenliest  month  of  the  year, 

Though  its  bowers  are  haunted,  and  tears  have  a 

reason 

When  the  queen  of  Olympus  is  queen  of  the  sphere ; 
The  dew-softened  flame  of  her  flower  is  ever 

187 


A  symbol  of  memory  wedded  to  hope; — 
From  a  rose-wreathen  gateway  the  day  will  appear, 
And  when  the  shades  lengthen  on  mountain  and  river 
The  rose  light  fades  last  on  the  still  Western  slope. 

And  so  while  the  days,  with  an  infinite  splendor, 
Are  bursting  and  burning  in  passionate  bloom, 
And  the  moon,  like  a  censer,  all  glowing  and  tender, 
Is  silently  swung  through  the  star-litten  gloom, — 
The  enchantments  of  youth,  and  thq  grace  and  the 

glory 

Of  our  crowning  for  battle  return  with  the  time 
When  ambrosial  garlands  of  fancy  perfume 
The  laboring  present,  the  vision  and  story 
That  make  the  past  sacred,  the  future  sublime. 

Wherever  it  reached  us,  in  pleasure  or  duty, 
The  glamour  of  conquest  or  silence  of  woe, — 
The  recall  of  our  Mother,  in  accents  of  beauty, 
Awoke  our  allegiance  in  love's  overflow: — 
The  gates  of  remembrance  swung  open  before  us, 
And  the  pathway  whose  foot-prints  are  guarded  so 

well — 

While  the  shining  array  of  the  dear  long  ago 
Swept  down  to  the  march,  and  the  marvellous  chorus 
That  was  rung  from  the  bronze  of  the  old  chapel  bell. 

Oh,  sweet  and  rare, 

From  stair  to  stair, 

Like  golden  brooklets  in  the  air, 

Falling  and  filling; — 

188 


Or  bird  that  floats 

With  raining  notes 

Where  an  April  rainbow  glows  and  gloats 

The  saintly  bell  made  music  thrillmg. 

Sweet  as  dreams 

Of  fireside  gleams 

In  lowly  lands,  by  weary  streams, 

Pleasures  recalling; — 

Or  voice  serene 

O'er  the  templed  sheen 

Of  the  glorious  city  of  Saladin 

When  the  Moslem  call  to  prayer  is  falling. 

And  what  forms  are  those  that  so  silently  cluster 

And  beckon  and  whisper  in  stairway  and  hall? 

Faces  of  angels,  but  over  their  lustre 

Shadows  unspeakably  sorrowful  fall. 

Christ !  is  it  thus  that  the  ghosts  of  our  playtime 

Return  to  behold  us  with  pitiful  eyes — 

To  review  the  disasters  that  compass  us  all — 

To  be  told  of  our  deeds  of  the  dark  and  the  daytime 

And  the  measureless  lapse  from  the  olden  emprise? 

The   immortal   Three   Hundred   on    fame's   purple 

morning 

Foreseeing  the  doom  of  that  garlanded  day, 
Anointed  their  locks,  and  with  graceful  adorning 
Went  down  to  the  Persian  in  festal  array ; — 
But  if  we,  in  the  flush  of  our  blooming  ambition, 
Could  behold  the  misfortunes  that  darken  our  air, 
And  the  shadow  of  self  in  defeat  and  decay, 

189 


How  the  proud  head  would  bow  to  the  dark  appari- 
tion 

And  the  young  heart  would  burst  with  an  awful 
despair ! 

Oh,  blessed  bell, 

Thy  murmurs  swell 

Like  the  sound  of  seas  that  haunt  the  shell 

Of  ocean  ever; 

By  thee  is  borne 

To  hearts  forlorn 

The  remembered  music  of  the  morn 

Though  youth  and  hope  are  lost  forever. 

And  thus  the  past 

Is  ours  at  last — 

On  the  silvery  billows  crowding  fast 

Scenes  that  are  cherished; — 

The  cable  slips. 

And  our  shallop  dips 

On  the  sea  where  a  thousand  crystal  ships 

Return  with  the  joys  that  long  have  perished. 

I  have  read  in  some  story  of  Orient  travel 
Of  a  mystical  symbol  that  often  recurs 
In  those  tombs  of  the  Nile  where  the  learned  unravel 
The  religion  of  Magian  worshippers ; 
It  is  that  of  the  outward  and  physical  mortal 
Adoring  the  type  of  the  indwelling  soul, 
And  preserved  in  that  painting  that  time  never  blurs, 

190 


On  the  funeral  walls,  or  the  temple's  rich  portal, 
Glowing  and  bright  as  the  centuries  roll. 

And  the  thought  is  sublime,  with  a  deep  revelation 

Older  than  prophecy's  feverish  dream — 

And  unconsciously  still  we  concede  an  oblation 

Is  due  the  eternal,  ethereal  beam 

That  is  lodged  in  our  bosoms,  the  guest  of  a  season, 

A  god  in  mortality's  tear-misted  veil — 

And  a  god  that  can  weep  over  life's  bitter  theme 

And  this  burden  of  clay  whose  unspeakable  treason 

Attaints  the  green  earth  with  the  blight  of  its  trail. 

In  the  faith  of  old  Egypt  we  come  to  our  college, 
Seeking  the  souls  of  our  worshipful  youth, 
With  the  gifts  of  our  labors  and  gleanings  of  knowl- 
edge, 
Or  with  hands  that  are  empty   and  pleading  for 

truth; 

And  we  know  all  along  when  our  stern  Alma  Mater 
Looked  over  the  fields  from  the  victory  gate, 
It  was  then  that  they  clustered,  in  ardor  and  truth, 
Like  the  angels  of  dawn  o'er  some  sulphurous  crater, 
Our  guardian  in  many  a  dubious  strait. 

For  they  often  come  down  in  the  smoke  of  our  striv- 
ing, 

Like  the  Olympian  gods  to  the  struggle  of  Troy ;— — 

In  the  swirl  of  our  lives,  where  the  tempests  are 
driving, 

How  often  the  man  is  upheld  byi  the  boy ! 

191 


And  we  surely  do  well  to  remember  them  truly, 
And  keep  the  ideal  of  life  that  they  drew, 
For  the  cup  of  young  Innocence,  brimming  with  joy, 
Like  the  gift  of  the  queen  to  her  monarch  of  Thule, 
Will  keep  our  hearts  leal  the  long  journey  through. 

A  song,  a  shout, 

A  lawless  rout, 

Gone  wild  with  the  joy  of  school  let  out, 

Merriest  noises; — 

A  comrade's  pledge, 

A  jest's  bright  edge, 

As  gay  as  the  thrill  of  a  lark  in  the  hedge- 

Oh  bell  of  magic,  are  thy  voices! 

A  gentle  prayer 

In  the  morning  air, 

When  the  girls  were  so  placidly  fresh  and  fair, 

Followed  by  singing; — 

A  friendly  word, 

In  the  twilight  heard, 

When  the  youthful  soul  was  so  darkly  stirred, 

Mix  with  the  bell's  celestial  ringing. 

Like  the  crystalline  circles  a  pebble  has  shaken 
From  the  violet  dream  of  some  glimmering  lake, 
A  life  is  a  cycle  of  lustres  that  waken, 
And  pass  from  the  centre  the  motion  they  take; 
While  the  flesh  is   the  motor — the  impulse  that's 
given — 

m 


The  dull  weight  that  startles  the  first  gleaming  band, 
Whence  a  wavering  myriad  of  bright  circles  break 
In  the  luminous  ether,  from  heaven  to  heaven, 
Till  they  murmur  at  last  on  Elysium's  strand. 

And  the  youth  is  the  loveliest  circle  that  dances 
In  the  billowy  cycles  of  storm-broken  years, — 
In  its  spirit  of  light  and  its  mirroring  trances 
The  pageant  of  all  the  blue  heaven  appears; 
And  its  radiant  thoughts  may  be  cruelly  shivered 
In  the  swift  tribulations  that  come  to  us  all, 
But  its  beauty   remains  through  all  tempests   and 

tears, 

And  the  delicate  pictures  that  darkened  and  quivered 
Return  when  the  calms  of  eternity  fall. 

A  low  word  now, 

A  whispered  vow, 

When  the  moonlight  kissing  a  maiden's  brow 

To  speech  embolden; — 

For  the  time  could  wait 

At  a  try  sting  gate 

'Til  the  -flowers  had  bashfully  sighed  "  so  late;'9 

When  speech  was  silver  and  silence  golden. 

When  winter  comes 

The  wild  bird  roams 

Away  from  our  sad  and  sunless  homes 

False  in  her  praises : 

For  birds  and  bees 

13  J93 


Love  blooming  trees, 

But  the  bell  is  a  snare  to  the  loves  of  these, 

And  will  ring  us  down  to  the  dreams  of  the  daisies. 

The  ring  and  the  lamp  of  the  Arabic  legend 
To  those  who  possessed  them,  their  spell  ne'er  denied, 
But  the  slave  never  came  from  his  mystical  region 
Till  the  master's  warm  hand  the  caress  had  applied. 
It  is  thus  that  the  gifts  of  the  gods  should  be  treas- 
ured, 

It  is  thus  that  our  labors  have  blossom  and  fruit, 
And  though  hands  may  be  weary  and  souls  may  be 

tried 

It  is  thus  that  success  is  accomplished  and  measured 
When  the  priests  are  astray  and  the  oracles  mute. 

Like  the  knights  of  King  Arthur's  traditional  table, 

The  faithful  in  love  and  the  valiant  in  war, 

Here  is  our  Camelot,  massive  and  stable, 

A  temple  of  chivalry  shining  afar: 

It  is  here  the  shields,  which  are  blank  when  we  take 

them, 

Are  hung  when  each  yearly  reunion  returns ; — - 
Shields  with  Sir  Launcelot's  blazon  and  scar — 
Or  bare  as  Sir  Modred's — for  thus  as  we  make  them, 
The  laurels  each  wears  are  the  laurels  he  earns. 

No  life  can  be  utterly  hopeless  and  dreary, 
If  the  friendships,  the  jewels  of  youth,  but  remain, 
For  we  builded  as  high  as  the  eagle's  wild  eyrie, 

194 


In  distrust  of  the  earth  and  its  reek  and  its  stain: 
In  the  night  and  the  storm,  when  the  billows  are  wail- 
ing, 
We   must    chain    all   our    faith   to   the    anchor    of 

gold; 

It  was  forged  in  the  light  of  Affection's  bright  reign, 
And  the  drift  of  the  heart,  when  belief  is  all  failing, 
Sadly  may  strain  but  not  loosen  its  hold. 

Over  the  musical  fountain  of  laughter 
Weepeth  the  willow  of  ruth  and  regret, 
And  the  shades  of  the  past  and  the  trackless  here- 
after 

Will  come  when  the  banquet  of  pleasure  is  set; 
But  our  loves  are  kept  green  and  our  spirits  are 

nourished 

By  the  bountiful  mists  and  the  murmuring  rain, 
For  the  day  never  failed  to  come  back  to  us  yet, 
And  the  flowers  that  fell  in  the  fields  where  they 

flourished 
In  the  vales  of  the  future  will  blossom  again. 

'So  ring  thy  knell, 
0,  wizard  bell, 

Like  a  lover's  last  and  long  farewell, 
Fondly  delaying, 
As  sweet  and  slow 
As  rivers  flow 

By  the  cities  that  perished  long  ago, 
When  a  sunset  light  is  softly  playing. 

195 


The  'knell  is  tolled; 

Its  echoes  rolled 

Over  the  mountains  of  misted  gold; — 

Sadly  we  linger; — 

The  feast  is  o'er, 

And  at   the  door 

The  Fate  that  forever  walks  before, 

Has  Ufted  a  silent  and  warning  finger. 


SEQUOIA   SEMPERVIRENS 

The  occasion  of  planting  the  class  tree  at  the  State 
University— June  18,  1887. 

Once  in  the  mystic  days  of  old 

By  Kephisos  the  gods  were  met, 

A  shining  circle,  throne  by  throne, 

The  rulers  of  Olympus  shone, 

While  robes  of  purple,  crowns  of  gold 

Than  sky  or  sun  seemed  brighter  yet. 

'Twas  there,  contending  each  for  fame, 
Poseidon  and  Athena  stood 
And,  triumphing,  the  battle  queen 
Called  from  the  earth  the  olive  green 
And  gave  "  the  violet  crowned  "  the  name 
Revered  from  Hellespont  to  Hood. 

With  gentle  rites  we,  too,  to-day, 
Who  fain  would  be  remembered  here, 
Set  in  this  sacred  soil  a  tree 

196 


Our  green  memorial  to  be 
When,  drifting  outward,  far  away 
Our  parted  ships  shall  disappear. 

It  came  from  Californian  hills, 
The  purple  highlands  of  romance 
Whose  deep  resounding  forests  caught 
The  footsteps  of  the  Argonaut, 
When  with  a  fortitude  that  thrills 
He  led  the  Western  world's  advance. 

The  epic  of  the  golden  age 
Among  the  mighty  redwoods  rang; 
Beneath  their  shadows,  dim  at  noon, 
The  "  rocker,"  and  the  "  torn  "  were  hewn, 
And  history  turned  another  page 
With  battle  shout  and  armor  clang. 

No  wise  Medea  came  to  greet 
The  gallant  Jasons  of  that  time; 
Alike  to  them  was  war  or  peace 
Who  came  to  seek  the  golden  fleece, 
And  in  the  battle  toil  and  heat 
Their  sordid  lust  became  sublime. 

The  smoke  of  scattered  campfires  rose 
Above  the  royal  redwoods  then 
But  not  as  incense — Forty-nine 
Knew  neither  god  nor  priest  nor  shrine, 
But  with  Titanic  ringing  blows 
Preached  a  stern  creed  in  gulch  and  glen. 

197 


They  builded  better  than  they  knew 

While  winds  breathed  music  through  the  trees, 

For  long;  before  their  toil  was  done 

The  land  they  robbed  their  hearts  had  won, 

And  then  in  their  allegiance  true 

They  heard  no  more  the  calling  seas. 

Now  bourgeoning  with  all  our  hopes 
Around  this  tree  our  thoughts  will  twine 
But  sometime,  maybe  in  defeat, 
Returning  with  world-weary  feet 
Along  these  dear  familiar  slopes 
'Twill  be  to  us  a  joy  divine. 

Here  Memory  with  pensive  brow 
Will  tell  her  golden  rosary — 
And  all  we  have  to  hope  or  fear 
Seem  nothing  when  as  pilgrims  here 
The  bright  world,  as  we  see  it  now, 
Shall  fling  its  portals  wide  and  free. 

Beneath  the  sapphire  arch  of  June 
We'll  meet  the  spirits  of  the  past ; 
The  scent  of  roses  in  the  air 
Will  wake  a  longing,  half  despair 
Like  that  which  Hermes'  sea-shell  tune 
Upon  the  bright-haired  Argive  cast. 

This  scion  of  the  forest  dark 
That  echoed  in  heroic  days 

198 


Shall  be  our  pharos  and  our  fane 

As  sailing  o'er  the  misty  main 

With  shattered  sail  and  groaning  barque 

We  need  some  strength  our  hearts  to  raise. 

To  us  it  must  forever  stand 

A  shrine  and  sacred  symbol  too, 

And  when  our  gold-browed  stars  are  lost 

Our  destinies  all  tempest-tossed, 

It  will  recall  that  rugged  band 

Who  in  their  conflict  nobler  grew. 

The  bluff,  broad-shouldered  knights  are  gone, 
Their  white  tents  furled,  their  trails  effaced, 
And  yet  their  better  conquests  thrill 
Our  hearts  with  emulation  still, 
And  lead  us  like  Crusaders  on 
To  deeds  by  every  virtue  graced. 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  FLOWER  MOON 

The  circle  of  days  is  clasped  and  completed, 

And  the  flowers  bring  gold  to  the  bridal  of  Faith, 

For  the  drama  of  life  is  restored  and  repeated, 
In  the  bannerless  calm  of  the  forest  of  death, 

When  the  bluebird  and  violet  come  back  together, 

Blown  by  the  South  wind,  blue  blossom  and  feather, 
With  the  music  and  fragrance  of  Spring's  first 
breath. 

199 


The  dead  year  has  joined  ths  dim   dead  without 
number 

And  the  chalice  of  being  brims  over  anew, 
The  crape  of  old  sorrows  can  never  encumber 

The  heraldic  ensigns  of  the  sunlight  and  dew 
As  the  new  year  arises,  resplendent  and  regal, 
Wearing  no  trace  of  the  task  and  the  vigil, 

While  the  roses  drink  crimson,  forgetful  of  rue. 

The  flower  will    fade  when  its  odor  is  wasted, 
And;  the  hqart  must  grow  cold  when  its  passions 

fulfil; 
But  the  cup   of  the  gods  the  pale  lips  have  once 

tasted 

Is  enwreathed  for  the  banquet  awaiting  them  still ; 
The  daisies  await  in  the  vernal  adorning, 
And  the  dead  that  sleep  under,  some  beautiful  morn- 
ing 
Will  greet  the  red  sun  on  his  orient  hill. 

In  the  robes  of  her  queenhood  the  young  moon  of 
flowers 

Goes  up  to  her  temple  of  azure  and  pearl, 
While  the  incense  of  beauty  awakens  the  hours 

Thiat  salute  her  and  pass  in  a  glimmering  swirl, 
Braiding  light  gems  in  the  garlands  of  pleasure 
And  weaving  swift  songs  in  the  mystical  measure 

The  steias  love  to  chant  as  they  sparkle  and  curl. 

'Tis  a  time  we  have  chosen,  the  time  of  all  others, 
For  the  feast  and  oblation  of  Tammany's  day, 
200 


And  we  bind  the  gold  chain  of  the  totemic  brothers 
With  the  chaplets  that  garnish  the  altar  of  May — 
In  the  beauty  and  mystery,  dear  and  yet  dying, 
When  the  waters  sing  low  and  the  breezes  are  sigh- 
ing 
The  refrain  of  a  race  that  has  faded  away. 

In  the  darkness  of  days  when  the  hatchet  was  lifted, 

And  the  crested  Ohio  went  moaningly  by, 
From  a  star  that  shone  out  when  the  cloud-rack  was 

rifted, 
Our    illustrious    emblems    were    dropt    from    the 

sky, — 

Freedom,  enriched  with  the  blood  of  the  dearest, 
Friendship,  forever  serenest  and  clearest, 

And  the  gem  in  whose  lustre  all  sorrows  must  die. 

• 

And  the  brow  of  the  soldier  was  suddlenly  lighted 
As  his  strong  hand  was  clasped  on  the  glittering 
prize, 

While  the  anguish  of  battle  was  strangely  requited 
And  dissolved  like  a  cloud  in  the  holy  emprise ; 

For  war  bent  his  plume  to  the  circle  fraternal 

Surrounding  the  gift  of  the  spirit  supernal — 
The  reward  of  the  true  and  dblight  of  the  wise. 

On  the  star-tinted  fields  of  the  blue  empyrean 

There  arfc  circles  in  circles  that  blazon  the  night ; 

As  for  us  in  the  vales  of  the  meek  Galilean, 
The  historical  orders,  from  vases  of  light, 

Scatter  the  perfume  and  treasure  of  heaven — 

201 


Each  in  the  orbit  the  Spirit  has  given, 
And  serene  as  the  stars  in  the  tempests'  despite. 

In  the  virtues  we  keep  and  the  good  that  we  scatter 
The  memorial  traces  of  glory  remain, 

For   the   sachems   sleep  well  in  the  world's   weary 

clatter 
While  a  votary  seeks  the  sylvestrian  fane; 

A  strange  race,  and  wise  in  each  presage  and  omen — 

As  grand  as  the  Greek  and  as  proud  as  the  Roman, 
And  so  priestly  and  calm  in  all  pleasure  and  pain. 

O,  the  wild  life  they  led,  the  imperial  vagrance, 

With  its  dalliance  of  love  and  its  banquet  of  war, 
Where  the  sycamores  rustled  and  pines  wafted  fra- 
grance, 
And  their  speech  was  aglow  with  the  rose  and  the 

star! 
But  the  grasses  grow  green,  and  the  green  grasses 

wither, 
While  the  winds  ask  the  waves,  and  the  waves  answer 

"  Whither?  " 
For  they  wander  no  more  by  the  rivers  afar. 

After   life's    changing   story,   the   brave   and   big- 
hearted 

Are  serenely  encamped  in  some  radiant  vale, 
And  they  lightly  resume  the  bright  threads  that  were 

parted, 

And  the  echoes  of  song  that  enliven  the  tale; 
202 


While  we  haunt  the  old  forests  with  dreamy  white 

faces 

For  the  classic  medallions  and  lost  arts  and  graces 
Of  the  race  that  has  silently  passed  from  the  pale. 

In  the  tricksy  parade  of  our  conquests  of  learning, 
In  the  tinsel  of  courts  and  the  clamor  of  marts, 

There  is  nothing  at  last  but  a  desolate  yearning, 
And  a  skeleton  stalks  in  our  gossamer  arts, 

For  we  curse  as  we  cringe  to  a  duty  golden, 

Curse  with  hot  lips,  as  our  tortures  embolden, 
Till  the  beauty  of  freedom  has  conquered  our 
hearts. 

On  the  trails  of  the  Red  Men,  though  fading,  for- 
saken, 

It  is  left  us  to  glean  the  wild  flowers  of  truth, 
And  rekindle  the  campfire,  and  gently  awaken 

The  virtues  forever  refulgent  in  youth, 
Till  the  beautiful  Triad,  arisen  and!  shining, 
Illumine  the  ways  of  our  toiling  and  pining 

With  its  brilliant  twin  stars  in  a  crescent  of  truth. 

In  the  forests  embattled,  and  mountains  of  splendor, 

Where  the  Siskiyous  call  to  the  stormy  Cascades, 

Surely  Freedom  shall  find  a  strong  arm  to  defend 

her; 

And  the  temples  of  friendship  arise  in  the  glades — 
May  the  mantle  of  charity  never  be  narrow 
In  the  shadow  of  want  or  the  chamber  of  sorrow, 
While  the  May  moon  returns  with  our  Gems  in 
her  braids. 


Poems  of  Sentiment 


AT  PARTING 

A  Commencement  Song 

Beside  the  mystic  river 

At  holy  evenf all, 
Where  golden  lilies  quiver, 

And  reedy  murmurs  call, 
We  pause,  dear  hearts,  at  starting, 

Each  leaning  on  his  oar, 
And  never  know  till  parting, 

How  beautiful  the  shore ! 

CHORUS 

Touch  hands  with  love, 
Touch  lips  with  tears, 
The  golden  lilies  chime, 
And  call  us  to  the  river, 
And  down  the  tide  of  Time. 

The  brow  of  Alma  Mater 

Ne'er  shone  with  such  a  light; 

And  O!  we  know  that  later 

When  tempests  come,  and  night, 

That  light,  forever  shining 
Along  Life's  troubled  main, 
207 


Will  cheer  us,  though  repining, 
In  darkness  and  in  pain. 

(CHORUS) 

The  stars  march  on;  the  gleaming 

Of  every  diamond  crest, 
And  white  plumes  dimly  streaming 

Above  the  world's  unrest, 
Tell  us  the  martial  story 

That  rules  the  realms  of  space, 
The  combat  and  the  glory 

Heroic  lives  may  face. 

The  last  word  must  be  spoken, 

The  last  song  must  be  sung, 
Yet,  O!  we  give  no  token 

Of  how  our  hearts  are  wrung, 
As  here  beside  the  river, 

We  lean  and  look  and  sigh, 
And  on  our  faint  lips  quiver 

The  long,  long  words,  Good-bye! 

(CHORUS) 


008 


ONLY  A  FEATHER 

There  is  never  a  rose  in  the  green  garden  blows 

In  the  time  of  the  dreamiest  weather, 
That  enkindles  my  heart  till  in  rapture  it  glows 

As  the  flame  of  this  dear  little  feather. 
It  is  crimson,  you  see,  and  so  many  there  be 

That  may  rival  its  aniline  lustre, 
It  is  strange  that  it  weaves  such  a  spell  upon  me, 

As  the  redolent  memories  cluster. 

The  philosophers  read  any  secret  at  need, 

And  restore  a  dead  field  from  a  flower, 
Or  a  forest  with  banners  from  one  withered  seed, 

That  has  slept  in  a  fossilized  bower; 
And  they'd  tell  me  to-day,  from  this  tremulous  spray, 

This  endeared  and  adorable  feather, 
Of  a  Romanized  warbler  that  wore  it  one  day 

When  the  sun-birds  were  singing  together. 

And  I'd  nod,  and  I'd  smile,  but  I'd  know  all  the  while 

They  were  lost  in  a  tangle  of  fable; 
There  was  never  a  bird  in  a  palm-crested  isle 

That  the  orient  fairies  called  Mabel; 
And  there's  no  bird  that  roves  in  the  pomegranate 
groves, 

Or  savannas  of  villas  suburban, 
That  displays  such  a  plume,  as  it  gracefully  moves 

In  a  dainty  Parisian  turban. 
14  209 


And  from  tip  unto  tip,  with  a  pause  at  her  lip, 

It  is  useless  to  tell  you  the  measure 
Of  the  sweet-throated  thrush  that  allured  me  to  sip 

The  delight  of  the  chalice  of  pleasure; 
For  the  years,  as  they  flow,  have  a  cadence  of  woe 

That  my  heart  was  bowed  down  to  discover, 
Since  she  moulted  this  plume,  many  summers  ago, 

As  she  leaned  on  the  breast  of  her?  lover. 

Oh,  the  myrtle-sweet  days,  how  they  throng  to  my 
gaze 

In  a  crimsoning  vista  of  roses, 
While  the  light  of  romance  reverentially  plays 

O'er  the  scene  that  my  fancy  discloses; 
For  my  sweetheart  is  there  on  the  glimmering  square, 

Where  the  school-girls  at  evening  are  trooping, 
And  her  wavering  plume,  like  a  flame  in  the  air, 

Is  gracefully  swaying  and  drooping. 

Ah  well,  it  is  right  that  I  sorrow  to-night, 

And  I  kneel  to  the  fate  that  is  given, 
For  the  joy  of  that  time,  like  Promethean  light, 

Was  purloined  from  the  treasure  of  heaven: 
It  is  well  that  I  moan  for  the  day  that  is  gone, 

For  my  life  is  astray  altogether, 
While  the  dreams  of  my  summer  like  swallows  have 
flown, 

And  left  this  memorial  feather. 


210 


ADIEU 

Adieu !   No  word  can  now  be  said 

To  wake  a  love  forever  dead ; 

Kissed  for  the  last  time,  let  it  sleep 

Where  hopes  repine  and  memories  weep. 

Swept  by  the  lethal  wave  of  doom 
Its  lips  shall  never  blush  with  bloom, 
Or  wreathe  again  with  any  smile 
They  wore  in  happy  days  erewhile. 

Its  rare  red  roses  whirl  away, 
A  drift  of  ashes,  cold  and  gray, 
And  hollow  whispers  now  prolong 
Remembrance  of  sweet  speech  and  song. 

The  birds,  blown  south  by  wintry  gales, 
Return  again  to  vernal  vales, 
And  from  their  slumber  in  the  mould 
Arise  the  flowers,  blue  and  gold; 

Out  of  the  sea,  on  wings  of  pearl, 
The  scattered  streams  in  flight  unfurl 
To  braid  the  mountain's  helm  of  white 
And  brim  the  fountains  of  delight; 

But  dear  Affection,  darkly  slain, 
Shall  live  alone  in  throbs  of  pain, 
211 


And  no  swift  angel's  touch  of  light 
Weave  threads  of  dawning  in  its  night. 

For  me  no  gleaming  arch  of  hope 
Stoops  o'er  the  future's  misty  slope; 
Struck  by  thy  hand  my  visions  die, 
My  castled  dreams  in  ruin  lie. 

I  will  not  weakly  droop  and  wail 
Above  my  treasures,  crushed  and  pale, 
Nor  linger  idly  at  the  shrine 
That  answers  not  one  prayer  of  mine. 

But  on  the  altar  ashes  lay 
This  drooping  wreath,  and  go  my  way 
Down  sunset  slopes  and  to  the  sea 
That  rolls  to  dim  eternity. 

With  men  below  and  gods  above 
There's  naught  so  sweet  in  life  as  love, 
E'en  heaven  is  all  a  lonesome  shore 
To  them  whose  dream  of  love  is  o'er. 

With  all  our  faith  we  hardly  trust 
That  God  will  keep  the  rose's  dust 
Where  faithlessness  with  blighting  breath 
Has  struck  its  petals  pale  with  death. 

Yet,  haply,  earth's  long  trail  of  shade 
Another  star  shall  not  invade, 


But  on  that  golden  beach  shall  wait 
The  angel  of  a  better  fate. 

FOREVER 

The  temples  of  youth  are  decaying 

In  Beulah,  the  beautiful  vale, 
While  life  has  been  wearily  straying 

Away  from  its  radiant  pale 
To  the  waters  of  Marah,  all  sobbing 

The  sorrow  of  desolate  years, 
The  sorrow  and  tremulous  throbbing 
Of  hopes  that  have  darkened  to  fears. 
"  Forever,  forever,  forever !  " 
Is  the  song  of  a  dolorous  river — 
The  wail  of  the  river  of  tears. 

In  Beulah  a  ringleted  river, 

That  danced  in  a  garland  of  pearl, 
First  sang  the  refrain  of  Forever, 
With  many  a  wimple  and  swirl; 
And  the  flag-flowers  bent  in  the  rushes 

For  a  touch  of  the  fanciful  stream, 
As  the  roses  in  redolent  blushes 

Were  aflame  with  the  magical  dream. 
"  Forever,  forever,  forever !  " 
Was  the  song  of  the  ringleted  river — 
The  refrain  of  a  beautiful  theme. 

And  Love,  with  red  lips,  in  the  pauses 
Of  passion  took  up  the  refrain, 
913 


When  the  birds,  in  ecstatical  clauses 

Of  silence,  to  listen  were  fain; 
But  the  asp,  in  a  silvery  quiver 

Of  mystery,  whispered  the  breeze, 
That  a  rainbow  of  crimson  would  ever 
Rekindle  the  blossom  of  Ease. 
"  Forever,  forever,  forever !  " 
Was  the  song  of  the  jubilant  niver 
In  the  odorous  haunts  of  the  bees. 

Where  mountains  in  desolate  places 

Are  crouching  bare-kneed  in  the  sand, 
Hoary  sphinxes,  with  mystical  faces, 

Wide  gazing  in  revery  grand; 
The  garlands  I  twine  by  the  river 
Are  fillets  of  flame  on  my  brow, 
And  the  crystalline  chime  of  Forever 
Is  the  dirge  of  Elysium  now. 
"  Forever,  forever,  forever !  " 
Was  the  chant  of  the  musical  river, 
That  sang  me  a  treacherous  vow. 

The  stars,  on  their  cold  eminences, 
May  weave  immortelles  of  the  light, 

But  my  soul,  in  this  vapor  of  senses, 
Is  crowned  with  the  sorrow  of  night; 

And  the  oceans  may  chant  as  they  follow 
The  glimmering  shield  of  the  moon, 

But  their  anthem  is  weary  and  hollow — 


A  gloomy  un syllabled  rune. 
"  Forever,  forever,  forever !  " 
Is  a  lonesome  refrain,  if  it  sever 
A  soul  from  the  loves  of  its  June. 

There's  an-  odor  of  death  in  the  flowers 

Thajt  droop  in  this  chaplet  of  mine, — 
Believe  me,  in  sunnier  hours 

They  breathed  an  aroma  divine ! 
And  so  I  shall  wear  them  forever, 

Unlovely  endearments  of  death, 
As  I  turn  with  sick  lips  and  a  shiver 
From  love's  indestructible  wraith. 
"  Forever,  forever,  forever !  " 
O  sing  to  me,  shadowy  river, 
And  heal  the  old  sorrows  of  faith ! 


LURLINA 

Beneath  a  wintry  moon,  love, 

The  tented  hills  repose, 
But  all  my  soul  is  June,  love, 

And  all  my  heart  a  rose. 
Another  moon  isi  rising, 

Full-bosomied,  near,  and  warm — 
A  sweet  old  dream  surprising 

Remembrance  with  its  charm. 

The  town  lies  twinkling  yonder, 
Another  world  than  ours — 
215 


We  have  no  thoughts  to  squander 
On  wooden  walls  and  towers; 

Under  the  locust,  walking, 
We  breathe  an  air  divine — 

The  stars  and  flowers  are  talking, 
But  we  all  speech  resign. 

The  season  wreathed  with  beauty, 

The  throbbing  summer  night, 
Make  loving  thee  a  duty, 

Adoring  thee,  delight. 
The  birds  above  us  nestle, 

Asleep  with  folded  wing — 
We  hear  their  soft  plumes  rustle; 

They  almost  wake  and  sing ! 

We  did  not  drain  the  chalice, 

But  quaffed  its  rich  bouquet — 
Maybe  'twas  grace,  not  malice, 

That  snatched  the  cup  away. 
You  went  your  way  serenely, 

And  I  went  mine  with  blame; 
Your  brow  was  calm  and  queenly 

And  mine  was  red  with  flame. 

Lurlina,  Heaven  flies  not 
From  souls  it  once  hath  blessed; 
First  love  may  fade,  but  dies  not, 

Though  wounded  and  distressed; 
The  star,  long  since  departed, 
Still  haunts  our  midnight  skies, 
216 


Just  as  the  broken-hearted 
Will  keep  some  golden  lies. 

Though  after  days  deride  us 

With  Hymen's  broken  rings, 
We  know  that  once  beside  us 

An  angel  furled  his  wings ; 
And  angels  come  so  rarely 

Along  life's  troubled  way, 
We  may  remember  fairly 

The  moment,  as  the  day. 

We  leave  our  dead,  with  yearning, 

Where  daisies  drink  the  dew, 
And  live  our  lives  in  learning 

That  dreams  alone  are  true; 
For  dreams,  in  wild  expansions 

Of  moonlit  locust  trees, 
Have  built  such  perfect  mansions, 

And  wrought  such  rosaries! 

Adieu !   Like  ships  in  ocean 

That  nevermore  may  meet, 
We  pass,  in  life's  free  motion, 

To  victory  or  defeat; 
Your  bark,  yet  eastward  sailing, 

Will  seek  the  pearl  of  day, 
But  mine,  with  songs  of  wailing, 

Drift  down  in  purple  spray. 


917 


SINCE  IT  MUST  BE  SO 

They  know  a  tender  parting  phrase 

In  dreamy  Kaladeen, 
Where  summer's  tressy  tangled  rays 

Embroider  gold  and  green; 
For  the  lotus  blooms,  the  bulbul  sings 

While  they  kiss  the  cup  of  woe, 
And  sigh,  as  the  lifted  anchor  swings, 

"  And  since  it  must  be  so." 

Be  that  our  pledge  at  parting,  too, 

With  hearts  of  orient  calm; 
We  cannot  change  the  things  we  rue 

Beneath  the  pine  or  palm. 
When  the  wind  is  fair,  the  sail  unfurled, 

God  speed  the  ships  that  go — 
And  waft  the  echo  round  the  world — 

"  And  since  it  must  be  so." 

The  leaves  that  hid  the  robin's  nest 

Drop  softly,  one  by  one, 
Then  birdie  roams,  like  all  the  rest, 

When  shadow  follows  sun; 
While  the  beaded  brooklets  flash  and  fall 

By  many  a  mead  they  know, 
They  answer  ocean's  solemn  call 

"  And  since  it  must  be  so." 
318 


The  floral  arches  of  our  sky 

Are  fading  all  too  soon, 
And  sombre  shades  of  twilight  lie 

Upon  the  brow  of  noon; 
Though  Youth  may  braid  his  shining  hair, 

And  sing  to  the  years  that  flow, 
He  will  sigh  at  last  with  a  sweet  despair — 

"  And  since  it  must  be  so." 

Ah,  sweetheart,  we  must  go  our  ways, — 

Divided  lives  and  dooms, 
For  the  marching  spirit  still  displays 

A  crest  of  shining  plumes : — 
Red  roses  and  red  lips  are  dust, 

And  our  songs  are  sad  below 
Till  our  souls  ascend  to  that  tearless  trust: 

"  And  since  it  must  be  so." 


Then  lightly  pitch  the  roving  tent 

Of  life's  capricious  day, 
Where  sun  and  shadow,  blown  and  blent, 

Are  chasing  o'er  the  way; 
For  the  golden  lotus  lifts  and  swings 

Its  fragrance  to  and  fro, 
And  the  soul  to  itself  nepenthe  bring 

"  And  since  it  must  be  so." 


319 


A  MAIDEN'S  SONG 

In  a  chamber  rich  with  shaded  color 

A  maiden  loosed  her  lustrous  hair, — 
Like  a  languid  moon  in  a  mesh  of  sunlight, 

Her  beauty  throbbed  in  the  tressy  snare. 
Oh!  she  was  fair  as  a  red-lipped  lily, — 

A  rosy  marble  of  moulded  song, 
And  round  her  lips  fond  words  were  humming 

Like  sweet,  faint  bees  that  feast  too  long : — 

"  Love  will  surely  comie  to-morrow, — 

Even  now  his  glowing  feet 
Dash  the  dappled  shore  of  darkness 

Into  blushes  warm  and  sweet, 
And  his  ruby  waving  arrow, 
Points  to  me  and  to  to-morrow ! " 

Awhile  she  stood  in  the  rippled  splendor 

Of  amber  tresses  all  unbound, 
And  the  irised  clouds  of  castled  dreamland 

Went  sailing  o'er  her  soul  profound ; 
But  the  dear  eyes  drooped*  with  sudden  languor, 

And  over  her  curving*  lips  a  shade 
Of  far,  faint  trouble  fell  and  flitted, 

As  she  gathered  her  hair  in  a  careless  braid. 

"  Love  will  surely  come  to-morrow, — 
But  if  Love  inconstant  be, 
990 


Death  had  better  wear  my  favor, 
As  a  faithful  knight  to  me; — 
For,  if  Love  assail  with  sorrow, 
Death  should  be  my  guest  to-morrow." 

She  sleeps !  and  her  breasts,  like  fresh  camellias 

White-clustered  round  twin  buds  of  rose, 
Allure  an  amorous  swarm  of  starbeams 

To  feed  upon  her  sweet  repose ; 
And  the  lashes,  brown  as  twilight  shadows, 

Droop  softly  o'er  the  sapphire  eyes, 
And  around  her  lips  the  bashful  dimple 

Of  love's  young  dreams  entranced  lies. 

"  Love  will  surely  come  to-morrow ! 

All  the  roses  at  the  gate   • 
Lean  their  dewy  lips  together 

As  they  whisper,  '  Dream  and  wait ; 
Many  maids  a  wreath  will  borrow — 
Love  will  surely  come  to-morrow.' ' 

Then  the  moon  uprose,  her  slender  sickle 

From  steep  to  steep  was  handed  on, 
And  again  the  harvest  gold  of  midnight 

In  sheafy  splendor  showered  down. 
An  angel  from  the  fretted  casement 

Of  farthest  star,  on  wings  of  pearl 
Kept  tryst  with  her ;  upon  her  bosom 

A  moment  lay  a  fragrant  curl. 


"  Love  will  surely  come  to-morrow ; 

Whom  the  angels  kiss  at  night; 
'Neath  the  vermeil  arch  of  morning 

Ever  find  their  soul's  delight ; — • 
Nevermore  a  doubt  will  harrow, — 
Love  will  come  to  them  to-morrow." 

Then  the  morning  broke — its  beryl  billow 

Fringed  with  scarlet  foam  outspread, 
As  the  day  had  burst  its  dewy  calyx, 

And  flamed  in  blossom  overhead; 
But  the  maiden,  pale  as  some  wan  flower 

In  whose  pure  chalice  love  had  burned 
Its  magic  perfumes,  lay  unlitten, — 

Heart  and  hope  to  ashes  turned! 

"  Death  will  often  claim  the  morrow, 

We  have  wreathen  with  desire; 
Often  Hope  but  decks  the  altar 

Where  his  flames  at  last  expire ; 
Yet,  if  Love  assail  with  sorrow, 
Death  were  truer  king  to-morrow." 


222 


Poems  of  Patriotism 


"LIGHTS  OUT'5 

Lo,  the  bugle  call  has  sounded, 
And  the  torch  of  life  is  out — 

In  the  darkened  tent  of  slumber, 
Come  no  dreams  of  siege  or  rout, 

Where  Missouri's  tawny  waters 

By  the  inland  city  flow 
To  the  isles  that  gem  the  tropic 

Purple  sea  of  Mexico. 

On  the  golden  shield  of  honor, 

In  his  silent  bivouac, 
Lightly  rests  he,  but  no  trumpet 

Now  shall  call  the  hero  back. 

And  the  sentry  stars  above  him, 

On  the  wintry  walls  of  night, 
Pass  the  countersign  of  "  Sherman  " 

To  the  angel  hosts  of  light. 

And  the  years  shall  bear  the  challenge 
Of  "  Tecumseh's  "  martial  fame, 

Borne  'mid  thunder  peals  of  conflict 

On  through  storms  of  smoke  and  flame. 
15  225 


Let  the  nation's  glowing  banner 
Be  the  garland  of  his  tomb, 

As  its  chosen  sacred  symbols 
In  eternal  lustre  bloom; 

And  its  stars  shall  be  as  lilies, 
Mystic  violets  the  blue — 

And  its  red  the  rose  of  battle 
In  the  wreath  to  merit  due. 

But  the  winds  shall  chant  the  pseans 
Of  the  conquests  of  the  free, 

And  his  loyal  ghostly  army 
Still  go  marching  to  the  sea. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SWORD 

The  Spring  of  '98 

There's  a  thrill  in  my  conscious  blade  of  steel, 

Like  the  thrill  in  the  lance  of  light 
When  it  wakes  the  world,  too  long  enfurled 

In  the  mocking  dream  of  night; 
Has  a  war  note  struck — and  must  I  leap  forth 

With  the  sword-knot's  blush  of  pride, 
And  plead  for  my  wedded  South  and  North 

And  a  righteous  claim  denied? 

From  its  dewy  cover  bursts  the  rose 

In  a  blushful  morn  of  June, 
But  the  lily's  breath  has  a  taint  of  death 

Where  the  wan  lakes  lie  a-swoon ; 


For  the  rose  breathes  love  and  love  brings  war 

But  the  lily  sighs  for  peace, 
As  the  world  moves  on  with  scath  and  scar 

Till  the  bugle  sounds  surcease. 

When  the  winds  arise,  the  still  sea  stirs 

And  tosses  a  stormy  main, 
As  the  gold-mailed  stars  salute  red  Mars 

From  the  crest  of  their  purpled  plain; 
They  know  it  is  but  the  pulse  of  life 

Arousing  a  deadly  calm — 
That  the  tempest  with  freshening  dews  is  rife 

.From  the  shores  of  bloom  and  balm. 

Though  peace  is  sweet,  shall  we  clasp  her  close 

Till  her  sleep  is  a  fevered  dream, 
And  never  awake  for  a  great  truth's  sake 

Though  the  baleful  death-lights  gleam? 
Ah  no !   The  drift  of  her  golden  hair 

Gorgonian  wreaths  become 
When  the  world  forgets  the  trumpet's  blare, 

And  the  cannon's  lips  are  dumb. 

There  is  life  in  death,  and  death  in  life, 

In  the  changeful  web  and  woof 
Of  the  mighty  loom  in  whose  light  and  gloom 

Is  our  fibre  put  to  proof: 
And  the  palms  of  peace  and  the  plumes  of  war 

In  the  march  of  time  have  place, 
As  advancement  rolls  her  royal  car 

To  the  shining  heights  of  grace. 


As  the  red  rose  bursts  its  calyx  green 

When  the  birds  its  blooming  sing, 
Ere  the  canker's  mould  has  marred  its  fold 

And  its  dream  of  dawn  takes  wing, 
From  encircling  Peace  does  the  crimson  flower 

Of  a  great  truth  burst  and'  glow 
When  the  cannons  boom  the  fateful  hour, 

And  the  stormy  trumpets  blow. 

As  the  dawn's  alert  and  thrilling  gleams, 

The  slumbering  hills  apprise 
That  the  young  morn  waits  at  the  eastern  gates 

And  their  crests  in  pride  must  rise, 
So  I,  like  a  radiant  messenger 

Of  light,  from  the  sheath  must  leap, 
And  when  Freedom  calls  must  answer  her 

That  her  legions  do  not  sleep. 


THE  ROUNDED  AGE 

A  Centennial  Poem 

Unfurl  the  flag!  let  the  winds  caress 
And  lift  it  in  rippling  loveliness 
Over  all  the  wild  west-world  we  claim, 
By  cross  and  sword  and  in  Freedom's  name, 
From  the  peaks  that  gleam  o'er  Alaskan  gloom 
To  the  isles  of  palm  and  the  shores  of  bloom ; 
From  the  sacred  rock  where  the  seed  was  sown 
To  the  sunset  capes  where  the  flower  has  blown, 


O,  flag  of  the  Union,  toss  and  wave ! 
Millions  thy  freemen — but  ne'er  a  slave ! 

Unfurl  the  flag!  let  it  curl  and  kiss 
The  zephyr  that  faints  in  the  summer's  bliss: 
It  was  born  in  storm,  and  its  glory  sprung 
Where  the  bolts  of  the  battle  shrieked  and  sung: 
Through  smoke  and  cloud  it  has  won  the  right 
To  float  and  flaunt  when  the  days  are  bright. 
We  know  what  souls  in  its  white  stars  shine, 
And  the  blood  on  its  crimson  spilled  like  wine; 
We  know  the  strife  and  the  woes  and  fears 
That  hedged  it  round  for  a  hundred  years! 
Unfurl  the  flag!  we  have  followed  far 
That  mystical  token  of  stripe  and  star, 
And  borne  upon  many  a  field  of  dread 
Its  streaming  splendor  of  white  and  red ; 
But  now  from  the  height  of  the  struggling  years 
It  bursts  like  the  dawn  on  a  night  of  tears, 
And  we  gather  beneath  it,  with  radiant  brows, 
As  under  the  beautiful  arch  that  bows 
In  the  shimmering  vapors,  after  the  rain 
Has  smitten  the  flowers  and  fields  of  grain. 

I. 

The  days  are  dim,  the  world  is  old 
And  bleak  with  human  dust  and  mould, 
In  plume  and  mail  the  bold  knights  ride 
To  fray  and  tourney — scarf  and  sword, 
Love's  sweet  intrigue,  the  warrior's  pride 
Rule  king  and  courtier,  liege  and  lord ; 


For  war  and  love  and  lust  of  gold 
And  gropings  for  the  things  untold 
Put  many  a  lance  in  rest,  and  stain 
The  weary  earth  with  gory  slain. 
Kings  come  and  go  in  tragic  state, 
And  crowns  with  sparkling  jewels  set 
In  battle  debris  lie,  and  yet 
The  round  world  wheels,  and  Time  and  Fate 
Touch  hands  and  whisper,  "  God  can  wait ! " 
And  still  the  despot's  iron  sway 
Strikes  truth  and  genius  in  the  dust, 
True  hearts  repine,  great  spirits  rust 
While  high  aspirings  melt  away. 
From  superstition's  sable  wing 
All  midnight  shadows  fall  and  fling 
A  pall  of  terror  o'er  the  land; 
While  Christ's  dear  cross,  in  struggle  long, 
Rocks  to  and  fro  above  the  throng, 
Borne  on  by  many  a  bloody  hand ! 
In  old,  old  ways  the  ships  sail  on 
From  mart  to  mart  and  shore  to  shore, 
And  every  voyage,  o'er  and  o'er 
The  sea-paths  traced  in  ages  gone; 
And,  wide  and  wild,  Atlantic  lies, 
Untracked,  unknown  beneath  the  skies 
That  hover  far  upon  his  breast, 
And  still  his  thundering  surge  is  piled 
Along  the  Old  World's  trodden  strand; 
But  never  yet,  by  breezes  bland 
Or  any  hope  of  gain  beguiled, 
Has  ship  essayed  the  curtained  west. 

230 


II. 

A  sail!  a  sail!  three  ships  in  line 

Steer  blithely  o'er  the  ocean's  rim; 

The  blue  seas  foam  beneath  each  keel, 

Their  black  prows  dash  the  beaded  brine — • 

They  bear  the  flag  of  proud  Castile, 

The  sailors  chant  a  Romish  hymn! 

Down  the  unknown  and  vasty  world 

Of  rolling  waters  rides  the  fleet. 

The  white  mists  round  the  sky  are  furled, 

And  fair  winds  fill  the  snowy  sheet. 

Lead  on,  Maria,  reel  and  toss 

Into  the  waste  of  wave  and  sky, 

An  unseen  hand  leads  thee  across; 

Thy  path  is  marked  by  God's  own  eye! 

Be  true,  O  stately  Genoese! 

Keep  heart  and  hope  whate'er  befall — 

A  lofty  fate  has  thee  in  thrall, 

Fear  not  the  strange  storm-beaten  seas! 

The  gems,  the  gold  that  garnished  well 

The  queenly  form  of  Isabel, 

Were  torn  from  snowy  arm  and  breast 

To  speed  thee  in  the  mystic  West. 

m. 

'Tis  done.     Three  ships  at  anchor  ride 
Before  an  isle  of  sun  and  song, 
While  rude  barbarians  dumbly  throng 
The  rich  and  flow'ry  forest  side, 
And  still  with  child-like  wonder  gaze 

231 


Upon  a  knight  in  courtly  dress, 
Whose  bearded  lips  the  new  earth  press; 
And  start  again  with  quaint  amaze 
To  see  him  draw  his  sword  amain 
And  claim  San  Salvador  for  Spain. 

IV. 

I  look  again.    Long  years  have  flown  — 

A  single  bark,  with  sullied  sail 

And  many  a  mark  of  wave  and  gale, 

Tacks  in  upon  a  pallid  shore — 

All  silent  save  the  sad  sea  moan. 

A  boat  is  launched,  with  lab'ring  oar 

The  voyagers,  stern-browed  and  pale, 

Attain  thie  strand  and  kneel  for  prayer: 

A  wintry  chill  is  in  the  air, 

And  all  the  wan  skies  overhead, 

By  films  of  frosty  cloud  o'erspread, 

Give  neither  hue  of  hope,  nor  sign 

Of  living  God  or  grace  benign, 

And  yet  these  men  of  faith  and  song, 

Who  flee  from  priestly  rule  and  wrong, 

Kiss  the  cold  rock  on  which  they  kneel 

And  Plymouth's  shrouded  empire  claim, 

For  One  who  holds  a  higher  name 

Than  Aragon  or  proud  Castile, 

And  lo !  the  bleak  woods,  white  and  grim, 

Re-echo  their  thanksgiving  hymn, 

And  stretch  their  hands  in  crystal  mail 

As  if  to  bid  the  Pilgrims  hail. 


V. 

Another  age.     Long  troublous  years 
Have  rolled  into  the  silent  realm; 
The  hand  that  held  the  Mayflower's  helm 
Has  long  been  dust,  and  scarce  appears 
'Mid  Hayti's  tangled  vine  and  bloom 
The  great  Genoan's  lowly  tomb; 
And  fields  expand  and  cities  shine 
Along  the  new  world's  border  line. 
What  scene  is  this?     A  straggling  town 
In  green  New  England — while  the  morn 
Chases  the  lingering  shadows  down, 
And  loops  her  veil  of  silver  gray 
Across  the  gateway  of  the  day, 
With  restless  doubts  and  fears  forlorn 
Full  half  a  hundred  burghers  meet 
Upon  the  dim  and  silent  street; 
While  some  have  guns  and  stand  and  load, 
With  furtive  glances  down  the  road. 
But  hark!   I  hear  the  measured  tread 
Of  martial  ranks;  Pitcairn  ahead, — 
And  like  a  sudden  burst  of  flame 
The  scarlet  coats  emerge  in  sight 
Their  muskets  flickering  in  the  light, 
And  halt  before  that  band  of  fame. 
"  Disperse,  ye  rebels  !  "  Pitcairn  cries ; 
But  not  a  single  townsman  flies ; 
When  then  a  movement  and  a  flash, 
And  quick  the  levelled  muskets  crash, — 
While  here  and  there  a  patriot  falls 


Under  the  thunder  shower  of  balls. 
But  Freedom's  battle  has  begun 
With  that  first  blood  at  Lexington! 

VI. 

The  closing  scene.     In  Congress  Hall 
The  fearless  chiefs  are  gathered  all, 
This  day  a  hundred  years  ago ; 
And  bold  John  Hancock,  rising  up, 
Like  one  who  waves  a  wassail  cup, 
Lifts  o'er  his  head,  where  all  can  see, 
The  ringing  ritual  of  the  free, — 
And  with  his  pen,  just  freshly  dipt, 
Points  to  his  own  gigantic  script — 
Which  e'en  our  lisping  children  know — 
"  The  King  can  read  that  name,"  he  said, 
"  And  set  his  price  upon  my  head !  " 
Honor  to  him,  and  let  his  name 
Shine  fairly  still  in  deathless  fame! 
Honor  to  him,  and  God  bless  all 
Who  sat  that  day  in  Congress  Hall, 
And  pledged  their  names  and  honor  bright 
To  stand  for  Freedom  and  the  right ! 
How  well  that  sacred  vow  was  kept, 
How  well  they  battled  side  by  side 
Through  the  long  years  when  conflict  swept 
The  Colonies  with  ruin  wide — 
The  coronal  of  clustered  stars 
And  rippling  flame  of  bannered  bars 

Proclaim  in  every  wind  to-day 

234 


From  rugged  Maine  to  Mexic  Bay! 

And  prouder  than  Achilles'  fame, 

Or  any  god's  that  Homier  sung, 

Is  that  serene,  refulgent  name 

Whose  glory  all  the  world  has  rung — 

Till  every  virtue  'neath  the  sun 

Is  named  in  naming  Washington. 

And  O,  if  from  the  silent  bourne 

The  pilgrim's  spirit  e'er  return 

To  look  upon  the  things  of  earth, 

May  we  not  think  that  he,  the  first 

In  war  and  peace,  leads  forth  again 

His  host  on  many  a  storied  plain 

Where  Freedom's  infancy  was  nursed; 

And  that  they  march,  and  charge  and  wheel, 

With  soundless  shot  and  viewless  steel, 

Along  the  fields  their  valor  won? 

To-day,  when  crimson  battle  dew 

Is  sprinkled  o'er  the  soil  anew, 

May  we  not  think  the  summer  air 

Is  bright  with  legions  hovering  there 

To  view  the  deeds  that  we  have  done, — 

And  that  'tis  not  the  wind  that  lifts, 

In  starry  waves  and  rosy  drifts 

The  banners  blushing  o'er  the  land, 

But  the  soft  sweep  of  spirit  wings — 

The  claspings  and  the  mutterings 

Of  Washington's  immortal  band? 


335 


VII. 

The  lights  are  dim  and  men  are  blind, 
And  toil  and  toil  with  doubtful  mind, 
Though  all  the  tangled  ways  of  Time 
Are  redolent  of  truth  sublime, 
Of  her  long  march  o'er  broken  fanes 
And  purple  reek  of  battle  stains, 
With  golden  tresses  blown  behind, 
We  know  no  more,  but  blessed  are  they 
On  whom  God  puts  his  hand  to  say, 
"  The  hour  is  ripe,  lead  ye  the  way ! " 
Through  misty  aeons,  dim  and  vast, 
In  night  and  storm,  and  wrath  and  pain, 
Of  moaning  seas  and  fiery  strain, 
The  fruitful  earth  came  forth  at  last; 
And  so  this  broad  and  equal  state, 
To  human  freedom  dedicate, 
Is  but  the  flower  of  ages  long, 
Upspringing  from  a  soil  of  wrong ; 
What  woes  shall  come,  what  conflicts  dark 
Shall  yet  surround  the  sacred  ark, 
He  only  knows  who  set  the  stars 
Above  the  stormy  shock  of  wars; 
Yet  blest  are  we,  whose  kindling  eyes 
Have  seen  this  mighty  day  arise, 
And  greet  through  grateful  smiles  and  tears 
The  banner  of  a  hundred  years ! 
When  once  again  the  planets  wheel 
Their  courses  through  an  equal  age, 
We  too  shall  sleep,  with  all  the  leal 

236 


Whose  names  adorn  our  brightest  page; 
And  sweet  the  thoughts  that  other  men 
Will  bear  the  same  dear  colors  then — 
That  in  these  skies  of  violet 
The  stars  of  Union  shall  not  set! 

Hail  and  farewell,  O  flag  of  light — 
Receive  our  greeting  and  good-night! 
Mortality's  unwelcome  shade 
Across  our  fading  lips  is  laid, — 
We  pass  to  rest,  but  o'er  our  sleep 
Thy  deathless  stars  their  watch  will  keep, 
And  kiss  the  dark  from  Freedom's  crest — 
Beloved  of  all  that  love  the  best! 


BATTLE  FLOWERS 

[In  the  Tower,  London,  are  preserved  the  arms  and 
trophies  taken  by  England  in  all  her  wars.  These  weapons 
have  been  arranged  on  the  wall  artistically,  to  represent  various 
flowers.] 

In  London's  old  historic  Tower, 

Gloomed  with  a  mdghty  story, 
Hangs  many  a  gorgeous  battle  flower, 

Wrought  of  a  nation's  glory; — 
Lances   and   arrows,   swords  and  shields, — 
The  spoils  of  a  thousand  splendid  fields, 

Reeking  and  grim  and  gory! 

Each  pretty  bloom  the  schoolgirl  twines 
In  her  brown  hair's  fragrant  cluster, 
237 


In  that  dim  hall  of  England  shines 
With  a  weird  and  awful  lustre; — 

Roses  and  pansies,  daisies  fair, 

Enwreathed  for  the  spirits  gathering  there, 
In  the  grim  Valhalla's  muster. 

Ah,  none  may  smile  at  the  quaint  conceit, 
And  the  deep  thought  lying  under, 

For  we  hear  the  drums  to  battle  beat, 
And  the  storm  of  battle  thunder 

Raining  its  crimson  on  the  sward 

Where   the   dewdipped   flowers   afterward 
Look  up  with  a  smile  of  wonder. 

Nature  embroiders  all  her  graves ; — 
And  the  storm  will  roll  in  silver  waves 

From  a  sky  all  blue  and  vernal : — 
Passion  and  folly  and  pain  may  still 
But  wound  us  and  rend  us,  and  wreak  their  will, 

To  crown  us  with  wreaths  supernal! 

BATTLE  DAWN 

Though  Spring  is  weaving  a  coronal 

For  the  brow  of  the  risen  year, 
Of  the  sweet-faced  flowers,  pleading  all 

For  the  flight  of  wrath  and  fear, 
The  violet's  blue  and  lily's  white, 

And  the  tremulous  crests  of  gold, 
Are  lost  in  a  blaze  of  crimson  light, 

And  their  story  is  left  untold. 
£38 


By  the  wistful  sunset's  lingering  ray, 

And  the  torch  of  the  morning  star, 
And  the  glow  of  the  bright  full-blossomed  day, 

We  are  reading  the  creeds  of  war, 
And  arming  for  battle,  as  nations  born 

In  the  dusk  of  battle  must, 
And  flash  from  their  sheaths  the  swords  that  scorn 

The  stain  of  ignoble  rust. 

From  the  fairest  of  all  the  Antilles 

We  heard  a  voice  of  woe, 
The  saddest  of  all  sad  Niobes, 

Wailing  and  stricken  low ; 
And  had  answered  her,  but  awaited  yet 

The  relentless  Spaniard's  ruod, 
With  our  ears  for  Europe's  approval  set, 

But  deaf  to  the  living  God. 

Again  from  the  purple  Mexic  sea 

Came  a  deeper,  stronger  wail, 
And  a  ship  that  upbore  our  standard  free 

Went  down  in  her  shattered  mail; 
And  again  God  called,  through  the  lips  of  the  dead, 

And  the  blood  of  that  murdered  crew 
Was  aflame  in  our  banner's  martial  red, 

And  the  stars  in  its  field  of  blue ! 

The  lily  of  peace  is  fair,  serene, 

A  beautiful  vestal  flower, 
But  ever  beloved  the  best,  I  ween, 

After  battle's  crimson  shower. 


For  a  nation  born  in  battle  still 

Is  pledged  to  all  holy  wars, 
And  must  rise  when  the  calls  to  conflict  thrill 

From  the  stricken  shield  of  Mars. 

"  Remember  the  Alamo !  "  was  heard 

On  proud  San  Jacinto's  day, 
And  "  Remember  the  Maine !  "  will  be  the  word 

In  the  storm  of  the  coming  fray; 
And,  come  what  may,  let  us  face  the  gale, 

And  bright  may  our  beacons  burn 
As  we  follow  our  flag  through  the  iron  hail 

Till  the  stars  of  peace  return. 


240 


Miscellaneous 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  WRIGHT 

[The  "W.  S.  Wright,"  lost  in  Nookka  Sound] 

The  sun  has  set,  and  all  alone 

The  steamer  battles  with  the  sea; 

Her  plume  of  smoke  is  backward  blown, 

Beneath  her  prow,  with  bodeful  moan, 
The  conquering  wave  bends  sullenly, 

While,  chill  and  drear,  a  shadow  creeps 

Along  the  wild  and  misty  deeps 
That  roll  a-windward  and  a-lee. 

With  maniac  laughter,  deep  and  low, 
The  coiling  waters  mock  her  way; 

A  pallid  sea-bird  wheeling  slow 

Shrieks  to  his  mother  sea  below 

The  hopeless  flight  of  human  prey! 

And  o'er  the  rolling  desert  broods 

The  dreariest  of  Nature's  moods, 
Bereft  of  all  save  bleak  dismay. 

A  sudden  blenching  strikes  the  sea 
To  windward,  and  the  fearful  twang 

Of  Neptune's  trident  hums  a  glee 

Of  might  and  wrath  and  agony. 

For  where  the  breakers  boom  and  clang, 
243 


Like  flying  shrouds  from  rifled  graves, 
The  rended  foam  drifts  on  the  waves 
Whence  ocean's  slumbering  furies  sprang. 

Into  the  jewelled  arms  of  Night 

The  mad  storm  leaps,  his  vap'ry  hair 

Drifts  o'er  her  queenly  breast  bedight, 

And  quenches  all  its  gemmy  light; 
While  down  the  corridors  of  air, 

'Mong  tapestries  of  cloud,  the  moon 

Flits  by  with  white,  seared  face,  and  soon 
Night  and  the  storm  hold  empire  there ! 

The  stricken  billows  leap  away 

With  trampling  thunders  in  the  gale, 
And  staggering  blindly  to  the  fray, 
The  strong  ship  starts  each  bolt  and  stay; 

Her  cordage  shrieks,  and  with  a  wail 
She  plunges  downward  in  the  gloom 
Of  roaring  gorges,  hoarse  with  doom, 
And  none  alive  may  tell  the  tale. 

What  thoughts  there  came  of  home  and  friends; 

What  prayers  were  said;  what  kisses  thrown, 
Were  lost  upon  the  wind  that  lends 
Its  borrowed  wrath  no  more,  yet  blends 

A  sigh  of  trouble  with  the  moan 
That  sadly  haunts  the  restless  waves, 
Forever  rolling  o'er  the  caves, 

Where  richer  things  than  pearls  are  strewn. 

244 


They  sailed  one  day,  and  came  no  more! 

All  else  is  wrapped  in  mystery; 
The  surges  kneel  upon  the  shore 
And  tell  their  sorrows  o'er  and  o'er  — 

And  still  above  the  Northern  sea, 
A  pensive  spirit,  pale  and  slow, 
The  gray  gull,  wheeling  to  and  fro, 

Keeps  watch  and  ward  eternally. 


QUO  ME,  BACCHE? 

Whither,  O  roving,  rosy  god, 

Still  young  as  the  morning  star, — 

Whither,  o'er  weird,  wild  lands  untrod 
Dost  thou  bear  me  afar? 

Long  since  thy  bright  ambrosial  mates, 
Swept  hence  by  ruthless  wings, 

Have  slipped  within  the  misty  gates 
Where  Fable  sits  and  sings; 

But  lo,  thine  ivy  fillet  gleams 

With  emerald  lustre  yet ; 
Along  life's  path  of  deeds  and  dreams 

Thy  countless  shrines  are  set. 

A  wider  empire  now  is  thine 
Than  when,  in  storied  days, 

Wandering  from  Hera's  wrath  divine, 
The  old  world  sang  thy  praise. 
245 


Boeotia  and  swart  India  thrilled 
With  fateful  frenzy  then; — 

But  thy  libations,  richly  spilled, 
Now  stain  all  deeds  of  men. 

Drawn  by  thy  stealthy,  spotted  pards, 

Thy  chariot  onward  rolls ; 
No  staying  hand  of  fate  retards 

The  doom  of  shrieking  souls; — 

A  mystery  of  threaded  gold 

Upon  thy  shoulders  bare, 
And  fraught  with  magic  snares  untold, 

Still  streams  thy  shining  hair. 

A  mist  of  dreams  is  in  thane  eyes 

Of  wistful  violet, 
And  on  thy  brow  of  high  emprise 

Beauty  and  pride  are  met. 

'  Hail  to  the  god ! "  the  nations  cry, 

And  quaff  the  blushing  curse; 
Young  Hope,  black  veiled,  goes  sadly  by- 
Hearts  droop  in  paths  perverse. 

Thy  gift  to  Midas  still  remains, 

Fair  god,  the  type  of  all 
That  we  receive,  who  in  thy  chains 

Shall  give  our  will  in  thrall. 

But  no  Pactolian  waters   roll 
To  heal  our  rending  pain; 
246 


Onward,  with  hopeless  death  the  goal, 
We  drag  the  lengthening  chain, — 

Praying  the  touch  of  the  spectre  pale 

May  be  our  seal  of  rest, — 
Deaf  to  the  Furies'  angry  hail, — 

Asleep  on  our  mother's  breast. 

With  sensuous  song  and  warm  caress, 
Thy  nymphs  our  youth  beguiled, 

As  o'er  their  snowy  loveliness 
Floated  their  tresses  wild. 

The  glowing  roses,  sprent  with  dew, 
Their  rich,  red  lips  outvied — 

What  wonder  that  as  bright  hours  flew 
Ambition  drooped  and  died. 

The  purple  glory  of  the  grape 

Suffused  the  captive  heart; 
From  love's  white  arms  who  would  escape, 

Or  bid  such  joys  depart? 

Now  howling  Maenads  round  us  throng 
With  dank,  dishevelled  hair — 

No  more  glad  laughter,  jest  and  song, 
Banish  the  thought  of  care. 

As  in  mad  midnights  known  of  old, 
On  the  Muses'  sacred  peak, 

247 


Craved  girls  their  torch-lit  orgies  hold 
With  many  a  ringing  shriek. 

So,  Bacchus,  whither  dost  thou  bear 
What  still  is  left  of  me, — 

Down  to  the  valley  of  Despair, 
Down  to  the  wailing  sea? 

Trailing  her  robes  of  red  and  gold, 
Sweet  Autumn  rustles  past; — 

Still  the  wreathed  thyrsus  must  I  hold, — 
No  rescue  come  at  last? 


THE  GORGE  OF  AVERNUS 

I  have  banished  the  spectre  of  sorrow, 
And  conquered  the  dragon  of  drink; 

I  have  torn  a  blank  leaf  from  the  morrow, 
And  fled  from  the  Stygian  brink. 

There  is  death  in  the  dew  of  the  roses 
That  bloom  in  the  blushes  of  wine; 

There  is  danger  where  pleasure  reposes, 
Though  we  call  her  a  goddess  divine. 

For  I  lingered  too  long — her  caresses 
Enslaved  me,  I  could  not  depart; 

And  the  shimmering  gold  of  her  tresses 
Entangled  my  spirit  and  heart. 

•H 


To  the  gorge  of  Avernus,  a  valley 

Of  lilies  and  violets,  leads 
Where  the  doomed,  that  are  garlanded  daily, 

Beguiled  by  the  nymphs  of  the  meads; 

Warm  Nymphs  with  bosoms  upswelling 
And  kissed  by  the  passionate  sun, 

Till  the  riotous  blood  is  past  quelling 
And  the  souls  of  the  victims  are  won. 

Bacchantes  they  are,  and  dissemble; 

With  wine-moistened  lips  they  entreat, 
The  flowers  around  them  a-tremble 

With  murmurs  ambrosial  sweet. 

But  wild  are  the  nights  that  come  after, 
When  the  vale  of  delusion  is  crossed, 

And  their  tresses  are  blown  and  their  laughter 
Is  bleak  with  the  wail  of  the  lost. 

Yet  swifter  and  wilder  are  woven 

The  bacchanal  dances  of  doom, 
Till  the  clew  of  the  lab'rinth  is  cloven 

And  their  torches  go  out  in  the  gloom. 

Ah,  then  there  is  madness,  the  terror 
Of  joys  that  are  crushed,  and  regret, 

And  the  feverish  phantoms  of  error 
That  ever  the  conscience  beset. 

The  dead  are  the  guests  of  the  living — 
The  beautiful  hopes  that  were  slain, 
Ml 


With  never  a  smile. of  forgiving, 

Come  thronging  when  pleading  in  vain. 

*  *  *  *  * 

And  yet  I  have  conquered  the  dragon, 
The  spectres  Plutonian  have  flown, 

And  the  horror  enshrined  in  the  flagon 
Has  left  me  in  freedom — alone! 

To  garnish  the  tombs  of  the  perished, 
The  dead  singing  songs  of  the  dead, 

Of  all  the  bright  dreams  that  I  cherished 
This  only  is  left  me  instead. 

But  lo,  in  this  pathway  of  duty, 

To  the  past,  I,  at  least,  can  be  true, 

And  the  mists  that  bedream  it  with  beauty 
Some  long  withered  flow'r  may  renew. 


THE  OLD  NEWSPAPER 

The  past  rolled  back  like  a  rainbowed  vapor, 
As  you  read  again  the  old  newspaper, 

Found  to-day 

In  the  must  and  dust  of  the  garret's  lumber, 
Where  the  spiders  weave  their  dreams  of  slumber 

And  still  decay. 

Faded,  and  frayed,  and  dearly  olden, 
Its  thoughts  are  sainted,  its  speech  is  golden, 
Prose  and  rhyme; 
250 


As  it  wakes  again,  like  a  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
With  a  heritage  of  rag  and  wrinkle, 
The  jest  of  Time. 

As  soft  as  the  tress  of  the  bashful  maiden, 
You  stole  one  day  when  the  tress  was  laden 

With  tasselled  bloom, 

It  seemeth  now,  and  your  touch  is  tender, 
Tender  as  love,  for  the  thread  is  slender 

That  stays  its  doom. 

As  brown  as  the  leaf  of  the  last  October, 
Its  smiles  are  tears  and  its  wit  is  sober 

In  later  days; 
As    the    fountain,    that    springs    with   a   laugh    of 

bubbles, 
Is  hushed  in  the  sweep  of  wider  troubles 

Of  creeks  and  bays. 

Whispers  sweet  as  the  dry-lipped  flowers, 
Uttered  in  lonesome  autumn  bowers, 

When  the  birds  have  flown, 
Are  faintly  breathed  by  these  withered  pages, 
That  knew  the  language  of  roseate  ages, 

Once  your  own. 

And  wistful  shadows  now  delay  on 

The  sportive  freaks  of  its  fleeting  crayon, 

Faded  so — 

And  yet  so  sure  in  the  fond  recalling 
Of  the  dear  bygones  into  Lethe  falling, 

Long  ago. 

251 


Comings  and  goings,  wedding  and  dying, 
Week-day  traffic,  and  rumors  flying 

Round  the  marts — 
In  the  mezzotint  of  the  types  reflected 
In  the  long,  low  light  of  the  years  perfected 

Reach  our  heart. 

Flemish  pictures  of  love  and  labor, 
Friendly  chat  with  the  next  door  neighbor, 

Helpful  words 

In  the  wayside  rests  of  the  path  of  duty, 
And  a  gentle  pride  in  the  fruitful  beauty 

Of  fields  and  herds. 

Only  an  artless  shepherd  piping 

In  the  woodland  ways  when  the  wheat  was  riping 

In  country  barn, 

It  was  glad,  withal,  to  get  its  guerdon 
Of  corn  and  wine,  as  it  bore  the  burden 

Of  city's  scorn. 

Fireside  pleasures  and  household  graces, 

Were  here  enshrined,  and  the  moon's  wild  phases 

Aptly  told; 

And  still,  as  the  plot  began  to  thicken, 
Stalked  forth  again  the  tragic  chicken 

With  legs  three-fold. 


252 


NEPENTHE 

On  the  wistful  glance  of  the  dying  day 

The  sunset  fringes  droop, 
While  the  moon  is  binding  her  locks  astray 

In  a  shimmering  silver  loop ; 
And  I  muse  where  the  shadows  of  bloomy  trees 

Are  aslant  on  the  rippled  clover, 
As  the  robin  sings  vesper  melodies 

A  hundred  sweet  times  over. 

The  infinite  sorrow  of  parting  lies, 

O  Earth,  on  thy  jewelled  breast — 
On  waves  and  woods  and  each  wing  that  plies 

So  wearily  home  for  rest. 
Down  the  long,  long  lines  of  gray  and  gold, 

The  dusk  and  the  daylight  meeting, 
Say  something  the  poets  have  left  untold 

In  the  lull  of  good-night  and  greeting. 

For  side  by  side  with  the  wimpled  shade, 

The  regretful  sunlight  moves 
To  a  fleeting  tryst  in  the  fragrant  glade, 

And  the  silence  of  trophied  groves; 
While  the  waiting  flowers,  one  by  one, 

Are  touched  with  a  passing  glory, 
As  sad  and  as  sweet  as  all  love  has  known 

In  the  lapse  of  its  changing  story. 
253 


But  the  song  is  shoaling  to  silence  now, 

And  the  plaintive  day  to  dark, 
And  the  light's  last  roses  wreathe  the  prow 

Of  the  twilight's  fading  bark — 
While  the  heart  is  hushed  by  the  lingering  thrill 

Of  a  joy  that  is  nearly  sorrow, 
And  a  woe  all  sweet  with  the  hopes  that  fill 

The  pallid  unrisen  morrow. 

So  furl  thy  banners,  O  castled  West, 

Let  the  rivers  run  blue  and  cold, 
And  the  world  be  wan,  if  our  souls  have  guessed 

The   secret   the   waves   unfold 
As  they  whisper  low  to  the  girdling  shore, 

When  the  day  and  the  dusk  are  braided — 
"  The  divinest  pleasures  arise  and  soar 

On  wings  that  are  sorrow-shaded." 


THEY  ARE  SINGING  THAT  SONG  TO-NIGHT 

Through  curtains  of  crimsoning  damask 

And  a  silvery  vapor  of  lace, 
The  light   of  a  beautiful  parlor 

Shone  out  on  a  desolate  face, 
Where  a  wandering  outcast  had  lingered, 

Alone  in  the  shadowy  street, 
As  the  strains  of  a  song  he  remembered 

Arose  in  a  harmony  sweet. 

It  was  late,  and  so  lonesome — the  starlight 
Seemed  to  nicker  and  fade  in  the  sky, 
254 


And  the  whimsical  wind  like  a  spirit, 

Stole  past  with  a  penitent  sigh; 
But  the  light  and  the  music,  and  fragrance 

Of  the  days  that  had  faded  from  sight 
Had  returned  as  he  listened — and  whispered, 

"  They  are  singing  that  song  to-night." 

It  is  Clara  that  wakes  the  piano, 

With  Charley  and  May  at  her  side, 
And  their  voices,  in  harmony  rising, 

Flow  on  like  a  rhythmical  tide; 
But  our  mother,  though  listening  sedately, 

Turns  softly  away  from  the  light, 
And  I  know  she  has  heard  some  one  moaning, 

"  They  are  singing  that  song  to-night." 

The  lamp-light  still  streams  in  the  darkness, 

And  the  hearts  of  the  singers  are  high, — 
It  is  little  they  dream,  in  their  gladness, 

That  the  phantom  of  sorrow  is  nigh, — 
That  a  soul  is  astray  on  their  chorus 

In  a  shallop  of  shining  delight, 
And  a  fugitive  weeps  at  the  gateway — 

"  They  are  singing  that  song  to-night." 

Oh  still  may  our  wandering  foot-steps 
Resound  in  the  hearts  that  we  love, 

When  the  fireside  is  curtained  against  us, 
And  the  stars  glimmer  coldly  above, 

And  the  angels  of  music  still  wander, 

From  homes  that  are  fragrant  and  bright 
255 


To  caress  the  despondent  and  murmur, 
"  They  are  singing  that  song  to-night," 

In  the  beautiful  home  of  affection, 

"  They  are  singing  that  song  to-night." 


NOW,  TRULY,  WILL  IT  PAY? 

To  Youth 

This  life  is  but  a  river  broad, 

Fed  by  unnumbered  streams, 
And  o'er  its  bosom  pause  and  pass 

Dark  shades  and  sunny  gleams. 
And  as  through  shine  and  gloom  we  go 

Upon  our  winding  way 
The  question  oft  runs  through  our  minds, 

"  Now,  truly,  will  it  pay?  " 

Of  course,  it  comes  in  later  years 

When  rainbowed  youth  is  o'er, 
And  visions  sweet  no  longer  wave 

Bright  signals  from  the  shore; 
When  brows  are  clouded,  hearts  are  cold 

And  love  has  flown  away, 
'Tis  then,  all  wiser  grown,  we  ask 

"  Now,  truly,  will  it  pay?  " 

It  is  a  hard  and  worldly  phrase 
We  learn  from  life's  defeats, 

From  trysts  with  sorrow  and  the  woe 
Of  Hope's  forlorn  defeats; 
256 


We  dread  the  thorn  beneath  the  rose, 

The  moan  in  mirth's  loud  lay, 
And  in  cold  accents  we  inquire, 

"  Now,  truly,  will  it  pay  ?  " 

It  is  not  of  the  minted  gold 

Of  acres  broad,  or  power, 
Nor  any  chaplet,  howe'er  fair, 

That  withers  in  an  hour, 
But  of  the  guerdons  Duty  brings 

To  crown  each  closing  day 
That  we,  with  heads  bowed  low,  should  ask, 

"  Now,  truly,  will  it  pay?  " 

In  every  venture  time  affords, 

Of  love  or  war  or  gain, 
We  only  hear  the  siren's  song 

And  not  its  sad  refrain: — 
The  purple  clusters  hang  so  low 

We  pluck  without  delay, 
And  not  a  moment  pause  to  ask, 

"  Now,  truly,  will  it  pay  ?  " 

To  flaming  passion  toss  the  rein, 

A  thousand  pleasures  call 
With  rosy  lips,  and  'tis  for  thee 

To  taste  the  sweets  of  all; 
But  o'er  a  lone,  forgotten  grave, 

On  some  near  future  day, 
The  mournful  midnight  winds  will  moan, 

"  Ah  no,  it  did  not  pay." 

17  «57 


TURNED  DOWN 

"  My  name  is  John,  but  they  call  me  Jack," 
Cried  a  grizzled  man  in  his  grim  distress, 

And  I've  been  such  a  fool  from  a  time  way  back 
That   they  might  have  added  the  "A"  double 

"  S." 

I  came  to  this  country  so  long  ago 

That  the  hills  seem  wrinkled  and  bent  and  old, 
And  the  sunrise  comes  with  a  rough-like  glow, 

While  the  pines  sing  wheezy  and  strange  and  cold. 

I  have  lived  on  coons  and  pertaters,  son, 

And  biled  wheat  straight  was  a  feast  for  kings, 

Though  there's  plenty  that  eat  it  too  underdone, 
And  were  busted  and  blowed!  into  fiddle  strings. 

Ah,  them  was  the  times  of  the  mountain  trails, 
And  the  fords  and  foot-logs  to  cross  the  streams, 

As  we  courted,  fit  Injuns  and  made  fir  rails, 
And  were  happy  as  folks  in  the  poet's  dreams. 

But  let  that  pass — I  will  leave  the  tale 

For  them  folks  to  tell  that  don't  wear  scars, 

How  we  conquered  and  over  the  wood  and  vale 
The  church  steeples  shone  like  the  mornin'  stars. 

I  was  slicker  than  grease  in  the  politics 
Of  them  rollickin',  rough-and-tumble  days, 

258 


For  the  game  that  was  played  had  few  of  the  tricks 
That  tangle  it  now  in  a  cunning  maze. 

From  road  supervisor  and  'squire  and  judge, 

And  back  and  over  the  road  again 
I  careered  as  I  pleased,  and  without  a  smudge 

Of  the  scandals  that  leave  a  ranklin'  stain. 

I  made  it  my  business,  and  liked  it,  too, 

To  always  be  pullin'  for  office,  like, 
And  stand  to  be  counted  as  good  as  new, 

And  waitin'  and  waitin'  for  lightnin'  to  strike. 

For  I  thought  they'd  get  used  to  me  then,  you  know, 
And  feel  sort  o'  lonesome  without  me  'round 

In  some  sort  of  office,  high  or  low, 

Till  my  title  was  proved  and  fixed  and  sound. 

And  I  reckoned  a  time  would  come  at  last 
When  a  true  old-timer  would  be  king  pin, 

And  corral  the  best  trumps  when,  thick  and  fast 
The  burdens  of  office  came  a-rollin'  in. 

I  believed  when  Cleveland  had  come  to  rule 
That  I,  who  had  trained  and  was  in  good  trim 

And  could  hold  down  an  office  as  big  as  a  mule, 
Would  be  the  right  citizen,  see,  for  him. 

And  I  am,  for  I  ain't  been  promoted  yet, 
And  I'll  tell  you  square  and  upon  my  soul 
259 


There's  a  young  fellow  in,  where  I  trusted  to  get, 
And  he  don't  know  Hood  from  a  ground  squirrel's 
hole! 

He  never  fit  Injuns  or  split  out  a  rail 

Or  eat  coons  and  taters  in  pioneer  days, 

When  we  had  to  foller  a  derned  hard  trail 
For  to  hustle  'em,  son,  without  much  praise. 

His  newness  is  awful,  but  I'm  turned  down, 

And  that's  the  small-pox  that  kerflummixed  me; 

The  republic's  ungrateful  and  I'll  leave  town 
And  sort  o'  hang  round  the  old  ranch,  see? 

ENVOY 

Take  the  coon   skin   down  from  the  storm-stained 
door 

Of  the  useless  past,  for  its  day  is  done, 
For  the  raw  young  tenderfoot's  got  the  floor 

And  turned  down  the  man  that  has  had  his  fun. 


DISILLUSION 

In  the  golden  tents  of  morning 

We  were  camped  upon  the  plain 
When  the  bugles  wafted  warning 

From  the  mountain  to  the  main; 
But  our  hearts  were  all  undaunted — 

Forth  to  win  the  aocolade, 
All  our  splendid  legions  flaunted 

Beautiful  in  plume  and  braid. 
960 


Over  violets  and  daisies 

Swept  the  storm  of  silk  and  steel, 
On  the  pansies'  pleading  faces 

Beat  the  charger's  iron  heel: 
Who  would  halt  and  who  would  waver 

On  the  crimson  fields  of  doom 
While  he  wore  his  lady's  favor 

In  the  shadow  of  his  plume? 

So  we  won  the  bannered  castles 

Of  the  blue  enchanted  hills, 
But,  alas,  we  are  the  vassals 

Of  a  fate  that  now  fulfils ; 
For  the  purple  veil  has  lifted, 

All  the  crags  are  cold  and  gray, 
And  the  golden  mists  have  drifted 

Backward  o'er  the  trodden  way. 

Sheath  the  sword  and  fold  the  banner, 

Hide  the  wounds  of  heart  and  brow,- 
We  are  older,  wiser,  wanner, 

Shadows  shall  not  mock  us  now; 
Give  the  fickle  maid  her  favor, 

Love's  a  glamour  with  the  rest, 
And  our  hearts  are  calmer,  braver 

When  we  lightly  pass  the  jest. 

Sheathe  the  sword  and  fold  the  banner, 
Faith  has  faded,  hope  is  slain ; 

Sheathe  the  sword  and  fold  the  banner, 
Give  the  weary  steed  the  rein; 
261 


All  the  shadows,  eastward  wheeling, 
Lead  us  downward  to  the  sea, 

And  a  welcome  bark  is  stealing 
Out  to  dim  eternity. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE 

And  though  the  soaring,  sea-loved  moon 

Shine  not  upon  the  valley, 
The  stars  along  the  dusky  fields 

Have  made  a  golden  rally; 
Yet,  darling,  draw  the  curtain  close 

Against  the  frosty  glory, 
The  firelight  blossoms  on  the  wall, 
The  rosy  sparkles  flash  and  fall 

Upon  the  hearth  before  me. 

I  think  of  other  Christmas  eves 

And  sweet  familiar  faces, 
Long  gone,  but  never,  never  lost, 

E'en  to  these  shady  places; 
Star-white  and  glancing  like  a  ray, 

The  hand  of  recollection 
Waves  o'er  the  twilight  of  my  dreams 
And  wakes  the  bygone  groups  and  scenes 

In  lovely  resurrection. 

Here  in  the  gloom  of  evil  days, 
While  clouds  go  o'er  us  trailing, 


The  silver  gaps  that  mem'ry  cleaves 
Still  keep  our  hearts  from  failing ; 

And  thus  to  pass  our  Christmas  eve, 
What  better  than  recalling 

A  dream  of  friendly  hearts  and  hands 

To  shine  along  the  shadow  lands 
While  rosy  sparks  are  falling! 

Ah,  in  that  sainted  long  ago! 

Who  is  there  but  remembers 
The  dim,  expectant  stocking  hung 

Above  the  dozing  embers; — 
The  rush  and  revel  of  the  morn 

When  wildly  bent  on  pillage, 
We  dragged  the  glorious  booty  out 
With  shrill  hurrah  and  reckless  shout 

As  troopers  sack  a  village! 

And  other  joys  of  later  time 

Bloom  in  the  bright  perspective, 
And  lift  the  grace  of  fragrant  hours 

O'er  mind  and  heart  reflective; — 
The  glowing  passion  of  the  night 

Above  our  sleigh-steeds  flying 
O'er  frosted  vales,  through  sparkling  dells, 
'Mid  crystal  gleams,  and  tuneful  bells, 

Where  brilliant  snows  are  lying. 

The  angel  of  good-will  that  sat 
Beneath  the  tree  paternal 


Comes  back  all  odorous  of  truth 

And  purity  supernal; 
Shine  on,  shine  on,  O  prophet  star, 

Beloved  of  sacred  story! 
Our  land  is  bright  with  Christian  love 
It  mingles  with  thy  ray  above 

And  fills  its  perfect  glory! 


264 


In  Memoriam 


AN  OREGON  PIONEER 

Eighty  years  of  sun  and  shadow, 

Eighty  years  of  smiles  and  tears! 
And  we  only  pause  and  wonder 

In  our  swift  and  short  careers; 
Eighty  years  of  love  and  duty, 

Eighty  years  of  hopes  and  dreams, 
And  the  chaplet  they  have  woven 

On  thy  meek  brow  softly  gleams. 

On  this  height  of  time  triumphant 

Thou  canst  see  the  promised  land, 
And  the  long  path  of  thy  journey, 

Guided  by  the  Father's  hand; 
In  the  tender  dusk  of  gloaming 

Lingering  morning's  golden  rose, 
While  through  falling,  fading  vespers, 

Morning  music  gently  flows. 

In  thy  bosom's  sweet  affections 
Still  exhales  a  fresh  perfume, 

And  thou  smil'st  at  youthful  ardor, 
Grateful  for  its  summer  bloom; 
267 


For  in  true  hearts,  wistful  yearnings 

Never  wholly  pass  away, 
And  the  children  of  remembrance 

Never  wander  far  astray. 

Cherished,  honored,  slowly  passing 

To  the  dim  and  mystic  shore, 
Loving  life,  yet  blandly  listening 

For  the  silent  boatman's  oar, 
Surely  is  the  day  worth  living 

Whose  bright  evening  is  so  calm, 
Hope  and  memory  incense  bringing 

From  the  shores  of  bloom  and  balm. 

Hear  the  gray  sea,  throbbing,  singing 

Songs  thy  sailor  loved  so  well, 
Mingled  requiem  and  paean, 

And  no  doubt  with  thee  can  dwell 
That,  with  signals  set  to  welcome 

Thee  to  guerdon  and  to  rest, 
Still  his  spirit  barque  is  waiting 

Near  the  islands  of  the  blest. 


909 


THE  NYMPHS  OF  THE  CASCADES 

[Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  George  E.  Strong,  a  brilliant 
young  journalist,  formerly  of  the  Oregonian  staff,  who,  imagin- 
ing that  he  heard  beautiful  strains  of  music  and  sweet  voices 
calling  him,  wandered  away  from  a  camp  in  the  Cascade  Moun- 
tains while  his  companions  were  sleeping  and  was  utterly  lost, 
no  trace  of  him,  dead  or  alive,  having  ever  been  found.] 

The  campfire,  like  a  red  night  rose, 

Blossomed  beneath  a  gloomy  fir 
When  weary  men,  in  deep  repose, 

Heard  not  the  gentle  night  wind  stir 
Her  priestly  robes  high  overhead, 

Heard  not  the  wild  brook's  wailing  song 
Nor  any  nameless  sounds  of  dread 

Which  to  the  midnight  woods  belong. 

The  moon  sailed  on,  a  golden  bark 

Astray  in  lilied  purple  seas, 
While  forest  shadows,  weirdly  dark, 

Were  peopled  with  all  mysteries; 
And  all  was  wild  and  drear  and  strange 

Around  that  lonely  bivouac, 
Where  mountains,  rising  range  on  range, 

Shouldered  the  march  of  progress  back. 

The  red  fire's  fluttering  tongues  of  flame 
Whispered  to  brooding  darkness  there, 

While  spe<rtral  shapes  without  a  name 
Were  hovering  in  the  haunted  air; 


And  from  the  fir  tree's  inner  shade, 
A  drear  owl,  sobbing  forth  his  rune, 

Kept  watch,  and  mournful  homage  paid 
At  intervals  unto  the  moon. 

The  travellers  dreamed  on  serene, 

Save  one  alone,  whose  brow,  curl-swept, 
Was  damp  from  agony  within; 

Who  tossed  and  murmured  as  he  slept. 
The  fitful  firelight  on  his  face 

Wavered  and  danced  in  elfin  play, 
Where  all  of  youth's  enchanting  grace 

As  light  as  dreams  upon  him  lay. 

The  glamour  of  the  rosy  light 

The  heavy  lines  of  care  concealed, 
And  trembling  shadows  of  the,  night 

Beyond  him,  like  sad  spirits,  kneeled; 
For  his  had  been  the  lustrous  gift 

Of  genius,  lent  by  God  to  few, 
The  splendid  jewel  wrought  by  swift 

Angelic  art  of  fire  and  dew. 

But  like  the  pearl  of  Egypt's  queen, 

'Twas  drowned  in  Pleasure's  crimson  cup, 
And  lo,  its  amethystine  sheen, 

In  baleful  vapors  curling  up, 
Soon  wreathed  his  brain  in  that  dark  spell 

That  has  no  kindred  seal  of  woe, 
As  phantoms,  that  in  Orcus  dwell, 

In  mystic  dance  swept  to  and  fro. 
270 


Swept  to  and  fro  and  maddened  him 

With  gestures  wild  and  taunts  and  jeers, 
And  waved  the  withered  chaplets  dim 

That  he  had  worn  in  flowery  years; 
His  spirit  furled  its  shining  wings, 

Never  again  to  sing  and  soar, 
And  wove  all  wild  imaginings 

In  shapes  of  horror  evermore. 

The  sleeper  started,  raised  his  head, 

Upon  his  elbow  leaned  awhile, 
And  gazed  where  deepest  night  o'erspread, 

With  wistful  eyes  and  brightening  smile. 
"  I  hear  sweet  music  far  away 

The  mountain  nymphs  are  calling  me ! " 
He  murmured.     "  How  divine  a  lay, 

O  soul  of  mine,  is  wooing  thee ! " 

"  Coming ! "  he  whispered  and  arose, 

And  gropingly  reached  forth  a  hand, 
As  if  another's  to  enclose, 

Some  ghostly  guidance  to  command — 
And  lo !  into  the  heavy  night, 

As  led  by  forms  unseen,  he  fled 
Far  from  the  waning  firelight 

Into  the  canyons  dark  and  dread. 

'Twas  years  ago,  but  trace  or  track 
Of  him  has  never  yet  been  found, 
For  Echo  only  answered  back 

271 


The  hunter's  call  and  baying  hound; 
Forever  lost,  untract,  unseen, 

A  shadow  now  among  the  shades. 

From  some  snow-wreathed  and  shining  peak 

His  soul  swam  starward  long  ago, 
And  now  no  more  we  vainly  seek 

The  secret  of  his  fate  to  know; 
While  fires  of  sunset  and  of  dawn 

Flame  red  and  fade  on  many  a  height, 
The  mystery  will  not  be  withdrawn 

From  him,  long  lost  from  human  sight. 

And  yet  I  sometimes  sit  and  dream 

Of  him,  my  schoolmate  and  my  friend, 
As  wand'ring  where  bright  waters  gleam, 

In  some  sweet  life  that  has  no  end — 
Within  the  Cascades'  inner  walls, 

Where  nymphs,  beyond  all  fancy  fair, 
Soothe  him  with  siren  madrigals, 

And  deck  him  with  their  golden  hair. 


"  ALLIE  " 

To  My  Sister 

"  Come  to  thy  rest,"  the  angel  said, 
In  fadeless  bloom  and  beauty — 

"  Come  to  thy  rest " — the  weary  head 
Drooped  by  the  path  of  duty. 


The  golden  stars  still  rise  and  fall, 

Forgetful  of  our  weeping, 
But  yet  we  know,  above  them  all, 

That  angel  watch  is  keeping. 

And  when  the  flowers  of  Spring  return, 
That  glimpse  the  heavens  clearly, 

Oh,  how  our  aching  hearts  will  yearn 
For  thee,  that  loved  them  dearly. 

No  sweeter  flower  than  thee  can  bloom 
On  this  dark  shore  of  sorrow — 

Bid  us  good-night,  in  tearful  gloom, 
And  garland  Death's  to-morrow. 

SLAIN  BY  THE  SEA 

[A  tribute  to   Hugh  Todd   Bingham,  drowned  at  Long 
Beach,  Washington.] 

The  halcyon  summer  sky  is  bent 

Benignly  over  the  sea  and  shore 
While  Ceres,  within  her  purple  tent, 

On  a  gleaming  throne  of  her  sheaves  in  store 
Is  wreathed  with  red  poppies  and  golden  wheat; 
And  a-dream  in  the  joy  of  triumph  sweet. 

And.  high  on  the  smoky  mountain  wall 
In  her  crystal  temple  peace  is  throned ; 

By  a  thousand  rainbowed  waterfalls 

Are  the  songs  of  her  saintly  calm  intoned, 
18  273 


When  with  drooping  crests  the  imperial  firs 
Are  silent  mysterious  worshippers. 

By  the  tawny  field,  where  the  keen  scythe  swept, 

The  silvery  musical  rivers  flow 
Down  to  the  sea-tryst  they  have  kept 

Since  the  bridal  morning  long  ago, 
When  the  bold  brown  shore  and  the  azure  sea 
Were  wedded  with  fateful  mystery. 

While  with  rich  fruition  spent  and  prone, 
And  all  of  her  garlanded  nymphs  a-swoon, 

So  rests  the  earth  with  her  trophies  strewn 
In  the  glow  of  the  beautiful  harvest  moon; 

Serene  in  her  gold  and  azure  veil, 

As  the  sweet  days  bourgeon  and  bloom  and  fail. 

But  for  me  a  tristful  shadow  lies, 

On  the  sheen  of  this  glory  of  wealth  and  peace, 
For  never  a  voice  that  is  lost  replies, 

Though  the  call  of  my  spirit  will  not  cease, 
And  I  hear  the  trees  and  the  tasselled  grass 
Full  many  a  whispered  secret  pass. 

For  the  golden  pomp  and  the  bright  parade 
Of  the  harvest  time  are  remote  and  pale, 

And  with  silence  over  my  spirit  laid 
My  heart  hears  only  the  ocean's  wail 

As  it  lifts  in  the  moonlight,  weird  and  cold, 

The  form  and  the  face  I  shall  ne'er  behold. 

974 


On  many  a  summer  night  like  these, 

When  the  wistful  sky  was  a-bloom  with  stars, 
Have  we  talked  of  the  manifold  mysteries 

In  the  region  beyond  life's  dusky  bars; 
But  now  he  knows:  he  has  passed  the  gate 
That  leads  to  the  further  fields  of  Fate. 

And  alas!  when  I  go  to  muse  alone 

And  to  question  the  mystical  stars  of  night, 

Will  a  quivering  ray  on  my  path  be  thrown 

By  a  soul  that  has  drunk  of  the  chalice  of  light, 

And  from  some  star  oriel,  far  and  clear, 

Will  he  lean  and  greet  me  with  hope  and  cheer? 

By  mortality  veiled  and  deluded,  lo 

We  grope  in  the  light  and  we  cannot  see 

The  phantoms  around,  and  the  tides  that  flow 
In  harmonious  currents,  swift  and  free, 

From  this  island  of  wreck,  that  men  call  time, 

To  the  infinite  shores  of  the  light  sublime. 

But  looking  along  my  own  life's  way, 
Be  it  long  or  short,  in  the  weary  trend, 

In  sunshine  or  shadow,  come  what  may 
I  shall  never  behold  my  unfailing  friend, 

But  forever,  along  the  plaintive  shore, 

Hear  the  sorrowful  burden,  no  more !  no  more ! 

The  murmuring  spring  and  the  perfumed  shade 

Of  a  glad  green  isle  in  the  desert  sands 
Was  his  friendship  ever  to  me  displayed 

275 


In  my  life's  wild  need  of  hearts  and  hands, 
And  I  think  of  him  now,  as  a  knighted  soul, 
Gone  out  to  the  gleam  of  a  higher  goal. 

Let  the  wild  waves  moan  as  they  kiss  the  dead, 
And  the  white  birds  wheel,  in  forlorn  unrest, 

In  the  mournful  midnights,  or  when  the  red, 

Swift  torch  of  the  morn  lights  the  ocean's  breast 

From  elysian  vales,  from  some  blest  star 

His  spirit  looks  down  on  the  sad  sea's  war. 

For  a  little  while,  with  tender  awe, 
As  the  querulous  days  go  on  and  on, 

Shall  I  nearer  and  nearer  the  strange  bourne  draw, 
And  nearer  and  nearer  the  shadowless  dawn, 

And  so  with  its  white  light  on  my  brow, 

May  I  grasp  the  hand  that  is  beckoning  now ! 

THE  CROWNING  OF  BURNS 

Though  winter's  crystal  helmet  gleams 

In  her  gray  and  sombre  sky, 
And  her  storied  vales  and  haunted  streams 

In  a  mist  of  silence  lie, 

There's  a  matchless  wreath  on  Scotia's  brow, 
For  to-night  with  her  the  nations  bow 

To  a  name  that  cannot  die. 

That  wreath  her  peasant  poet  wove, 

Of  the  daisies  of  the  sod, 

And  the  fresh,  wild  blooms  of  glen  and  grove 

276 


Where  he  wandered  like  a  god, 
And  left  by  many  a  brook  and  tree, 
Some  garland  fair  of  minstrelsy, 

To  endear  the  paths  he  trod. 

How  well  proud  Scotia  keeps  her  tryst, 

With  a  lover  fond  and  true, 
While  the  pale,  sad  skies  turn  amethyst 

And  the  braes  their  bloom  renew; 
For  the  woodland  ways  are  bright  and  long 
In  the  fadeless  summer  of  his  song 

Besprent  with  freshest  dew. 

To  her  the  chaplet  of  his  fame 
Is  more  than  her  splendid  shield 

And  the  trophies  won  in  battle's  flame 
On  many  a  stubborn  field ; 

For  he,  though  the  wayward  troubadour 

Of  the  plaintive  annals  of  the  poor, 
The  wealth  of  her  soul  revealed. 

A  sweeter,  truer  Virgil,  he 

On  the  breast  of  nature  leaned, 

And  listened  and  sang,  as  fond  and  free 
As  a  thrush  by  myrtle  screened, 

While  the  glowing  passion  of  his  tone 

Seemed  to  make  the  pulse  of  earth  his  own, 
And  no  shadows  intervened. 

His  was  no  cold,  unbodied  voice; 
But  rich,  with  a  human  thrill ; 
He  could  with  his  ingle-mates  rejoice, 

277 


When  the  winds  without  were  chill; 
And  then  to  the  cotter's  fireside  come, 
And  sing  of  the  holy  shrine  of  home, 

With  a  charm  that  soothes  us  still. 

His  songs  of  love,  in  glow  and  grace, 

Are  fragrant  of  asphodel, 
And  flowering  fancies  interlace 

In  the  fairy  glades  where  dwell 
His  Jeans  and  Marys,  so  vivid  yet, 
That  a  scent  of  rose  and  violet 

Makes  the  heart  responsive  swell. 

The  halcyon  age  must  linger  still 
Where  a  young  god  strays  and  sings, 

With  its  fanes  on  every  purple  hill, 
And  nymphs  at  the  sacred  springs, 

While  his  Bonnie  Boon  and  gentle  Ayr 

The  subtle  beauty  forever  wear 
Of  his  rapt  imaginings. 

He  grandly  sang  for  human  right 
And  the  brotherhood  of  all, 

Sublimely  hopeful  of  manhood's  fight, 
He  sounded  his  bugle-call. 

And  for  Caledonia's  sons  his  words 

Had  the  angry  flash  of  patriot  swords 
That  lighten  the  battle's  pall. 

O  poet  of  beauty,  love  and  truth, 
Accept  of  this  poor  wreath  of  ours, 

278 


So  pale  in  the  lustrous  glow  of  youth 
That  enchants  thy  fadeless  bowers; 
For  the  world  is  round  thy  shrine  to-night, 
While  thy  genius  made  the  journey  bright, 
And  golden  the  votive  flowers. 


BURNS 

[Written  in  commemoration  of  the  132d  anniversary  of  the 
poet's  birth,  January  95th.] 

The  poet  of  immortal  youth 

We  celebrate  to-day, 
Whose  soul  flashed  diamond  rays  of  truth 

That  never  fade  away. 

A  star  will  sometimes  fail  to  shine, 

Its  brilliancy  grows  dim, 
Yet  still  we  find  the  "  ploughman's  shrine  " 

And  fondly  worship  him ; 

The  vestal  virgin's  lamp  has  failed 
Where  Greece  and  Rome  held  sway, 

But  "  Bobbie's  "  genius  has  not  paled, 
It  lights  the  world  to-day. 

At  times  his  poverty  would  sting 

Until  he  broke  the  ban, 
Then  how  his  magic  harp  would  ring 

The  royal  rights  of  man! 
279 


As  April  clouds  will  gloom  and  pass, 

The  golden  sun  return; 
He  loved  too  well  the  wassail  glass, 

But  genius  still  would  burn : 

"  O  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut 
And  Rob  and  Allan  came  to  pree — 

Three  blither  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night, 
Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christendie. 

"  We  are  na  f ou,  we're  na  that  fou, 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 

And  aye  we'll  taste  the  barley-bree." 

A  glad  and  fearless  bard  was  he, 

To  all  things  true  was  leal, 
And  yet  with  all  his  jollity 

He  ne'er  forgot  the  "  Diel." 

"  An'  now,  auld  Cloots,  I  ken  ye're  thinkin', 
A  certain  Bardie's  rantin',  drinkin', 
Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin' 

To  your  black  pit; 
But,  faith!  he'll  turn  the  corner  jinkin', 

An'  cheat  you  yet." 

Poor  "  mousie,"  turned  from  house  and  hame 

By  that  immortal  plough, 
The  poet's  true  heart  overcame 

And  wreathed  with  shade  his  brow. 
280 


"  Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 
But,  Och !   I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear !  " 

"  Despondency  "  is  chill  with  gloom, 

We  turn  in  bleak  despair, 
And  cheerfulness  will  burst  in  bloom 

At  "  Holy  Willie's  Prayer." 

In  Amphitrite's  sacred  grove 
He  knew  the  font  and  fane, 

And  all  the  witchery  of  love 
Is  wrought  in  many  a  strain. 

"  Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O; 

Her  'prentice  han'  she  tried  on  man, 
An'  then  she  mad«  the  lasses,  O. 

"  Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ; 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend 

Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O ! " 

And  while  these  Winter  (lays  endure 
And  winds  and  rain  abide, 

We  cannot  but  remember  sure 
Bold  Tarn  O'Shanter's  ride. 
381 


To  death  that  glorious  name  and  fame 

We  shall  not  now  resign — 
Meeting  and  parting  never  came 

But  echoed  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 

While  "  banks  and  braes  "  with  birds  and  bees 

And  summer  flow'rs  are  sweet, 
And  limpid  waves  kissed  by  the  breeze 

Caress  the  wood-nymph's  feet. 

We  never  shall  forget  the  songs, 
(Such  pow'r  divine  was  given), 

Of  him  who  sang  to  angel  throngs 
Of  "  Mary,"  safe  in  Heaven ! 


THE  DYING  MINER 

When  the  foot-prints  of  spring  in  the  canyons  were 

seen 

And  the  flowers  peeped  shyly  gray  boulders  between, 
In  a  rude  miner's  cabin  of  far  Idaho, 
There  was  weeping  in  silence,  and  heart-breaking 

woe; 

!For  a  miner  lay  dying,  and  comrades  were  there, 
So  strong,  yet  so  helpless  with  utter  despair, 
To  find  this  one  foe,  that  no  valor  could  stay, 
Who  was  bearing  their  bravest  forever  away. 

It  was  evening,  and  sunset's  long  lances  of  gold 
Trailed  over  the  gulches,  deserted  of  old, 


As  a  sign  and  a  token  of  treasure  in  store, 
More  precious  than  ever  was  gathered  before. 

The  far  mountains,  kneeling  in  vestments  of  white, 
Like  pale  priests  were  crowned  with  the  beautiful 

light, 
Which  changed  the  worn  pick,  by  the  cabin  door 

cast, 
To  a  symbol  of  Christ  and  redemption  at  last. 

But,  within,  the  strong-hearted  clasped  hands  round 

his  bed, 

As  if  but  a  murmur  might  sever  the  thread ; 
The  silver  cord  that  trembles  in  touch  with  its  God 
Who  can  crown  with  a  blessing  or  smite  with  the  rod. 

The  sunset  was  fading  the  ridges  along, 
A  lone  bird  was  closing  a  sorrowful  song, 
While  shadows  grew  darker  o'er  the  river  ahead 
And  the  mountains  looked  haggard  and  cold  as  the 
dead. 

O'er  the  face  of  the  dying  a  sudden  light  came 
Like  a  ray  out  of  heaven,  so  pure  was  its  flame; 
To  the  home  of  his  childhood,  his   fond  heart  re- 
turned, 
And  the  faces  of  dear  ones  his  spirit  discerned. 

His  last  thought  went  back,  ere  his  spirit  was  free, 
To  a  low  Kentish  cottage  far  over  the  sea, 

283 


Where  his  father  and  mother,  so  early  and  late, 
For  the  boys  that  had  wandered  kept  watching  the 
gate. 

Then  his  brother  bent  over  one  last  word  to  hear, 
For  he  knew  that  the  wash  of  the  cold  sea  was  near, 
And  he  moaned,   as  his  lips  touched  the  mystical 

foam, 
"  Oh  brother,  take  care  of  the  old  folks  at  home." 

The  bird  ceased  its  singing,  the  sunset's  last  wreath 
From   the   pale   mountains    faded — he  lay    still   in 

death ! 

But  in  Idaho's  placers,  and  choose  as  you  will, 
There  was  no  truer  gold  than  the  heart  that  was 

still. 

Let  the  winds  waft  it  over  the  desolate  sea 
To  the  hearts  of  these  loved  ones,  their  comfort  to  be, 
And  chant  round  the  cabins  of  others  that  roam, 
"Oh  brother,  take  care  of  the  old  folks  at  home." 

And  the  stars  that  stand  guard  o'er  the  camp  and 

the  trail, 
When  the  strong  hearts  grow  weary  and  bold  spirits 

fail, 

Will  signal  aright  from  their  watch  in  the  dome 
If  they'll  only  take  care  of  the  old  folks  at  home. 


284 


Life  and  Death 


THE  LEGEND  OF  LIFE 

All  the  sweet  stars  sang  and  glittered, 

In  the  radiant  olden  time, 
Till  the  cup  of  life,  embittered, 

Flashed  along  their  feasts  sublime; 
Then  the  chorus  fell,  yet  ever, 

Though  they  smiled  through  falling  tears, 
Like  a  far  resplendent  river 

Ran  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

And  the  moon  uprose  serenely, 

In  that  plaintive  time  of  old, 
While  her  mantle,  lustrous,  queenly, 

Like  a  silver  mist  unrolled; 
But  her  brow  was  pale  and  chilly, 

All  her  beauty  clasped  the  air, 
And  she  wore  the  mystic  lily 

In  the  glory  of  her  hair. 

Then  the  crimson  lips  of  morning 
Kissed  the  world  to  life  and  light, 

When  the  blue  seas  caught  the  warning 
With  a  revel  of  delight; 

While  the  bold  peaks  towered  grandly 
To  the  arches  of  the  sky, 
287 


And  the  perfumed  zephyrs  blandly 
Waked  the  meadows  with  a  sigh. 

Bird*  in  hues  of  floral  splendor, 

Flamed  and  sang  in  tropic  woods, 
Tinted  vapors,  dim  and  tender, 

Wreathed  the  sky  in  lovely  moods; 
And  the  winding  rivers,  dreamy 

With  the  shadows  that  they  bore, 
Trailed  their  crystal  robes  and  beamy, 

To  the  ocean's  misted  shore. 

Gemmy  lakelets  lay  enchanted 

In  the  glamour  of  the  East, 
Then  the  trees  immortals  planted 

Dropped  a  gold  and  purple  feast; 
As  the  yellow  lion,  sleeping 

In  the  hyacinthine  shades, 
Saw  the  fearless  lambkins  leaping 

Down  the  clover-scented  glades. 

White-limbed  mortals,  idly  roving 

In  elysian  ecstasy, 
Knew  no  duller  task  than  loving, 

And  were  god-like,  fair  and  free ; 
For  their  lives  were  but  the  summing 

Of  the  sweets  the  angels  sip, 
Drowsy  as  the  brown  bees,  humming 

At  the  rose's  fragrant  lip. 


'Twas  the  happy  age,  the  golden, 

Which  the  elder  poets  sang, 
When  their  measures,  rare  and  olden, 

Up  to  heaven  rose  and  rang; 
But  a  north  wind  blew,  the  flower 

Curled  and  withered  in  its  breath, 
While  above  the  trysting  bower 

Ran  the  whisper — "  Labor — death ! ' 

Then  the  palm  tree  lisped  no  longer 

Tales  of  love  and  peace  benign, 
For  a  music,  braver,  stronger, 

Shook  the  plumage  of  the  pine ; 
And  the  surges,  shoreward  bending, 

Rolled  the  thunder  of  a  prayer 
That  was  half  a  paean,  blending 

Battle,  victory,  and  despair. 

Yet  the  fair  moon  wandered  nightly 

In  enameled  fields  of  blue, 
And  the  springing  dawn  still  brightly 

Showered  rubies  on  the  dew; 
Phoabus  still  passed  on  and  over, 

Crowning  earth  with  regal  charms, 
And  caressed  her,  like  a  lover, 

In  the  rose  wreath  of  his  arms. 

But  the  bugle  call  of  duty 

Echoed  down  life's  rocky  stair, 

While  the  world's  receding  beauty 
Told  of  tempests  in  the  air; 
289 


For  the  slow  and  strange  uncoiling 
Of  the  wondrous  fate  of  man 

In  the  dust  and  din  of  toiling, 
In  the  rush  of  strife  began. 

On  the  clear,  unspotted  pages 

Of  the  pearly  book  of  mind, 
Through  the  weary  lapse  of  ages, 

Shades  of  truth  were  dimly  lined; 
Words  were  blotted,  phrases  tangled, 

But  a  transcript  grew  apace, 
Like  the  features,  O  how  mangled! 

Of  Jehovah's  hidden  face. 

Genius  spread  her  purple  pinions 

For  a  flight  beyond  the  stars, 
Valor  called  his  fiery  minions 

To  the  wreck  of  savage  wars; 
And  the  sheen  of  cities,  founded 

By  the  rivers  and  the  seas, 
Marked  the  periods,  grandly  rounded 

On  the  roll  of  destinies. 

Many  gods,  with  wild  grimaces, 

Led  the  faith  of  men  astray — 
Temples  rose  in  sacred  places 

And  their  priests  bore  kingly  sway ; 
While  the  keen  sword,  never  sleeping, 

In  the  twilight  flashed  and  rang, 
Where  the  stormy  hosts,  at  reaping, 

To  a  moon  of  scarlet  sang. 
290 


Like  a  sail  that  glints  in  turning 

On  the  ocean's  cloudy  rim, 
Hints  of  truth,  a  moment  burning, 

Touched  the  spirit's  border  dim — 
Touched  and  passed,  and  left  the  tremor 

Of  a  flitting  sense  of  light 
On  the  soul  of  sage  or  dreamer, 

Watching,  listening,  through  the  night. 

Sweet  as  vesper  bells,  recalling 

Weariness  to  prayer  and  rest, 
Were  the  words  of  wisdom  falling 

From  the  lips  the  gods  caressed; 
For  the  minds  of  some,  uplifted 

O'er  the  tumult  of  the  years, 
Through  the  vale  of  shadows,  rifted, 

Caught  the  sunlight's  levelled  spears. 

On  prophetic  temples  visions 

Of  redemption  blossomed  then, 
And  beyond  the  sword's  decisions, 

Shone  the  star  of  peace  again ; 
But  the  pall  of  superstition 

Hovered  still  o'er  courts  and  camps, 
And  the  seers  in  pale  contrition, 

Stumbled  on  by  misty  lamps. 

'Tis  a  gala  night  with  immortals  above, 
And  sweet  as  the  sigh  of  the  woman  you  love 
Is  the  loitering  breath  of  the  breeze; 
291 


While  the  tresses  of  moonlight  are  drifted  and  blown 
On  the  lips  of  the  sea  waves,  subduing  their  moan, 
And  tangled  in  odorous  trees. 

Yet  the  stars,  from  their  beautiful  vasieg  of  pearl, 
Besprinkle  the  earth  with  their  bounty  and  whirl 

In  a  scintillant  laughter  of  light; 
But  the  vale  of  Judea  is  waiting  the  crown 
Of  a  kinglier  splendor  than  stars  shower  down, 

Or  wreathe  on  the  brow  of  the  night. 

The  waters  of  Jordan  salute  as  they  pass 

The  flowers,  that  lean  to  the  whispering  grass, 

With  a  crystalline  tinkle  of  song; 
And  the  olives  kiss  hands  to  the  mystical  palm, 
The  queen  and  the  priestess  of  lustre  and  calm, 

As  the  moments  of  jubilee  throng. 

O,  fair  as  the  bosoms  of  maidens,  the  hills 
Heave  soft  in  the  ocean  of  rapture  that  fills 

The  domain  of  the  prophets  and  kings ; 
And  the  shepherds,  reclined  on  the  blossomy  swells, 
Talk  low  as  they  listen  to  murmurous  bells, 

Or  the  bird  that  awakens  and  sings. 

Is  it  dawn,  that  the  stars  are  so  wofully  pale? 
Is  the  daylight  aflame  in  the  shimmering  veil 

Of  the  pensive  and  lingering  moon? 
Ah,  morn  never  rose,  and  the  day  never  shone 
With  a  glory  like  this,  as  if  suddenly  thrown 

From  the  disc  of  some  marvellous  noon! 
292 


For  the  gates  that  the  poets  and  psalmists  have  sung 
At  the  nod  of  the  Father  have  parted  and  swung, 

And  the  planets  are  misted  and  cold, 
As  a  flash  from  the  Throne,  an  ineffable  beam 
Is  an  instant  astray,  and  has  left  us  a  dream 

Of  sapphire  and  diamond  and  gold. 

There's  a  step  on  the  stair  that  the  angels  have 

trod, 
And  the  Prince  of  the  manger,  our  brother,  our  God, 

Is  the  guest  and  the  grace  of  us  all; — 
Our  Captain  in  battle,  the  Rose  and  the  Wreath 
Of  our  life  and  our  love,  and  our  triumph  when  death 

Shall  trumpet  the  welcome  recall. 

O,  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  comfort  us  still, 

For  the  pathway  is  dim  and  the  tempest  is  chill, 

While  our  sorrows  thou  only  canst  tell; 
And  the  spheres  never  roam  in  the  clear  amethyst, 
But  they  beckon  and  say  thou  wilt  come  to  the  tryst, 

And  we  know  that  the  rest  will  be  well ! 

Lo !  the  touch  of  Heaven,  streaming 

O'er  the  devious  ways  of  Earth, 
Left  full  many  a  beacon  gleaming 

On  the  altar  and  the  hearth; 
In  the  desert  sparkled  fountains 

That  were  never  known  before, 
While  the  cold  and  craggy  mountains 

A  serener  aspect  wore. 
293 


Then  the  heavy  tome  of  science 

Slowly  loosed  its  mjighty  maze, 
And  no  longer  bade  defiance 

To  the  pallid  student's  gaze; 
On  the  canvas  blushed  the  beauty 

Which  the  soul  of  art  doth  keep, 
And  the  sculptor's  priestly  duty 

Woke  the  marble's  snowy  sleep. 

Woe  befell,  and  nations  wandered 

In  the  slimy  sloughs  and  fens 
While  a  wealth  of  hope  was  squandered 

In  Cimmerian  glooms  and  glens ; 
But  the  goal  of  all  endeavor, 

Like  a  soaring  shaft  of  flame, 
Waved  its  golden  crest  forever 

Till  the  peoples  onward  came. 

And  the  ocean  swung  the  censer 

Of  its  worship  evermore, 
Though  the  days  were  darker,  denser 

Than  the  pagan  nights  of  yore; 
Then  the  graceful  rivers,  straying 

In  their  shining  scarfs  of  mist, 
Sang  of  summer,  and,  delaying, 

Meads  and  musky  gardens  kissed. 

O,  the  woven  lights  and  shadows 

Of  the  rolling  tide  of  Time ! 
Purple  tents  to-day,  and  meadows — 

On  the  morrow  cliffs  to  climb  I 
294 


But  the  broad  sun  stands  forever, 
As  the  planets  wheel  and  wheel, 

And  our  fears  depress  us  never 
When  the  days  at  parting  kneel. 

Leaf  by  leaf,  the  stony  record 

Of  the  strata  rises  still, 
And  the  life  of  man,  so  chequered, 

Owns  the  same  Eternal  Will ; 
In  the  dust  and  blood  and  ashes 

Of  a  thousand  wild  defeats, 
Vict'ry  springs,  the  spirit  flashes, 

And  the  pulse  of  courage  beats. 

Lo !  the  human  mind  advances 

In  the  nimbus  of  her  pride, 
And  within  her  starry  glances 

No  delusion  shall  abide ! 
In  the  trackless  depths  of  ether, 

Roving  worlds  display  her  sign, 
While  to  prisoned  Truth,  beneath  her, 

Patiently  her  ears  incline. 

Where  the  glaciers  glow  and  glitter 

Under  plumy  northern  lights, 
Fairies  carve  the  gems  that  fit  her, 

In  the  long  and  wakeful  nights 
Gems  that  flash  in  swift  renewal 

On  the  pallid  brow  of  Art, — 
But  the  stars  have  dropt  a  jewel 

In  the  rose-bloom  of  the  heart ! 
295 


WRECK 

At  'Sea 

Lo  the  sea ! — the  bright,  the  sleeping 

Spirit  of  the  globe  terrene, 
While  the  light  land  breeze  is  sweeping 

Musky  sighs  from  gardens  green; 
O'er  the  shining  leagues  no  wrinkle 
Of  the  blue  wave  turns  a  twinkle 

Of  the  moonlight's  showered  gold, 
Though  from  many  an  astral  quiver 
Diamond  arrows  glint  and  shiver 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  cold. 

Lo  the  sea! — the  wild  uplifting 

Bosom  of  our  mother  world, 
With  the  misty  rev'ries  drifting 

O'er  its  waters,  passion-whirled; 
And  the  lone,  brave  ships,  defying 
All  its  moods,  like  stern  thoughts,  flying 

O'er  a  tossed  and  trampled  heart, 
To  the  goal  of  some  endeavor 
Mists  and  seas  would  shield  forever 

On  the  mind's  unrolling  chart. 

Lo  the  sea ! — the  billow-broken 
Myst'ry  of  a  planet's  dream — 

Waking  with  its  thoughts  half-spoken 
When  the  tempests  rush  and  scream — 
296 


Lulling  all  its  voices  dreary 

When  the  north  wind's  wing  is  weary, 

And  the  crested  surges  roll 
To  the  sullen  capes  the  story 
Of  the  storm's  unbridled  glory, 

And  the  distant  church  bells  toll. 

In  the  distant  and  desolate  wastes  of  the  ocean, 

Afar  from  the  keel-fretted  trails  of  the  ships, 
She  lies  still  enough,  after  years  of  commotion; 

Her  sails  kissing  sand,  and  the  rocks  at  her  lips ! 
While  the  sea-bird  may  wheel  o'er  the  mist  of  the 

breaker, 
May  wheel  and  may  call,  but  it  never  can  wake  her 

To  toil  and  to  tempest  and  danger  again; 
For  the  battle  is  over,  the  billows  ride  past 
In  the  spume  of  the  tempest,  careering  and  vast — 

And  the  wreck  is  a  tale  among  sea-faring  men. 

While  the  sailors  that  sang  as  they  lifted  the  anchor, 

And  loosed  the  white  sails  in  the  port  far  away, 

They  were  gathered,  O  sea,  to  thy  bosom,  in  rancor, 

The  spoil  and  the  boast  of  the  sorrowful  fray ! 
For  the  tall  masts  are  shattered — the  deck  slanting 

steeply 

Will  nevermore  thrill  to  their  footsteps,  when  deeply 
The  murmuring  sea  breathes  the  threat  of  the 

storm; 

Nor  the  ropes  fly  in  many  a  wind-tangled  tress, 
Which  the  mariner  never  shall  coil  nor  caress 
With  the  infinite  grace  of  his  nautical  charm. 
297 


While  the  rolling  and  glimmering  desert  of  water 

Will  dimple  and  laugh  in  the  beautiful  sun, 
When  the  waves  have  forgotten  the  tempest  that 
brought  her 

A  wreck  on  the  shore,  and  so  sadly  undone; 
And  the  vessel  of  war  and  the  sloop  of  the  trader 
Will  shun  the  wild  isle  where  the  billows  have  laid 
her, 

And  pass  and  repass  on  imperial  seas — 
Will  pass  and  repass,  with  a  jocular  hail, 
And  a  song  'fore  the  mast,  and  a  light  on  the  sail, 

As  the  wreck  rots  away  in  the  sun  and  the  breeze. 

But  the  sea,  in  its  madness,  forever  aspiring 

To  clasp  the  blue  throne  of  the  star-circled  moon, 
Will  implore  and  implore,  with  an  ardor  untiring, 

And  kneel  on  the  shore  with)  a  mystical  rune ; 
And  the  crimson  will  foam  in  the  goblet  of  morning, 
The  pledge,  empyrean,  of  golden  adorning, 

As  day  in  its  crystalline  beauty  returns ; 
While  the  night  will  embroider  the  wave  with  her 

stars, 
As  she  ripples  a  silvery  truce  o'er  its  wars 

But  the  lamp  of  the  widow  will  fade  as  it  burns ! 

For  alas !  we  remember  the  time  of  the  launching, 

How  gaily  the  ship  sought  the  arms  of  the  sea ! 
And  we  look,  and  remember  the  faces,  now  blanching, 
Were  kindled  with  hope  when  her  canvas  shook 

free; 

And  we  sigh  as  we  think  of  the  terrible  ocean, 

298 


So  sad  and  so  strange,  in  its  moods  and  its  motion — 

Unequal  in  all  that  is  given  or  withheld; 
And  we  say  that  our  ship  was  surprised  in  a  squall, 
That  a  timber  was  rotten — but  know  not  at  all 
How    the    trouble    befell    that    the    surges    have 
knelled. 

So  the  fleets  sail  away  for  their  gold  and  their  spices 

To  islands  of  palm,  and  to  gardens  of  pearl, 
Or  wherever  the  spirit  of  commerce  entices 

A  bold  prow  to  push  and  a  sail  to  unfurl, 
And  so  what  does  it  matter?    We  thrive  altogether, 
And  earn  what  we  win  in  fair  or  foul  weather, 

With  heaven  above  and  the  billow  before; 
And  the  heavens  may  frown  and  the  billows  may 

foam, 
But  the  sailor  will  sing  and  the  ship  it  will  roam, 

Though  a  thousand  wrecks  lie  on  the  rocky  lee 
shore. 


On  Shore 

Lo  the  land! — upheaved  in  beauty, 
Carved  in  kingdoms  and  in  isles, 

And  its  rocky  paths  of  duty 

Bordered  fair  with  floral  wiles ! 

In  the  sunshine  lift  the  ridges, 

O'er  the  torrents  leap  the  bridges, 
And  the  rivers  onward  wind, 

Like  the  singers,  sweet  and  olden, 

299 


Who  with  harps  and  music  golden 
Soothed  the  warrior's  darksome  mind. 

Lo  the  land! — where  men  have  builded 

Stately  marts  and  jewelled  homes, 
Peasant  huts  and  marbles  gilded 

Clustering  round  cathedral  domes ; 
On  the  anvil  rings  the  hammer, 
And  the  engine's  muffled  clamor 

Drowns  the  tinkling  lute  of  love; 
But  the  eagle,  poised  in  ether, 
Sees  the  smoky  town  beneath  her, 

Dull  and  dingy  from  above. 

Lo  the  land!  the  sun  and  shadow 

Checkering  all  our  dreams  of  life — 
Chasing  rainbows  o'er  the  meadow, 

Struggling  up  the  hills  of  strife ! 
Love  is  long  and  life  uncertain, 
And  the  pale  unpictured  curtain 

We  have  known  and  named  as  death 
Hides  so  much  that  might  be  spoken, 
And  the  blue  sky  gives  no  token 

Of  our  dear  one's  vanished  breath. 

It  is,  ah,  such  a  night!  that  I  darkly  remember, 
While  the  resonant  rain  on  the  tenement  roof 

Is  a  monody  pouring  the  dirge  of  December, 
With  passionate  bursts,  as  it  wails,  in  reproof 
Of  the  sorrowful,  sorrowful  waifs  and  estrays — 

In  despair  of  the  soul  so  reluctant  at  starting, 

300 


The  ling'ring  "  good-night "   on  the  threshold  of 

parting 
That  must  be  "  good-morning  "  to  happier  days ! 

For  a  waif  and  estray,  and  a  lonely  soul  passing 

The  valley  and  shadow,  lies  here  at  our  feet, 
While  the  thundering  vapors  of  heaven  are  massing 

To  storm  the  night  through  with  a  whirlwind  of 
sleet ; 

While  a  door  that  is  fitfully  creaking  somewhere 
Is  a  voice  of  despair,  and  is  saying,  or  seeming 
To  say,  "  Come  away,  for  the  tempest  is  streaming, 

And  tumult  and  freedom  are  kings  of  the  air." 

As  a  wasted  and  sperm-sheeted  candle  is  burning, 

A  desolate  watcher  beside  the  low  bed, 
Where  a  curl-clustered  brow  is  so  restlessly  turning, 

And  leans  as  to  catch  the  strange  words  that  are 
said; 

While  the  wavering  shadows  that  crowd  on  the 

wall, 

And  so  silently  beckon  and  bend  as  in  greeting, 
Are  surely  the  dreams  of  his  past,  and  are  meeting 

To  witness  that  life  is  a  shade  after  all! 

In  the  dear  long  ago,  other  shadows  are  moving, 

At  night,  on  the  beautiful  wall  of  his  home, 
Where  a   guardian  angel,  untiring  and  loving, 
Outmatches  the  flickering  stars  of  the  dome, 
With  her  hand  on  his   cradle  the  solemn  night 
through ! 

301 


Other  shadows  than  these  the  dim  candle  is  flaring — 
These  beckoning  spectres  that  sigh  with  despairing 
That  nothing  we  love  is  enduring  and  true! 

Does  he  mutter  her  name,  that  his  voice  is  so  tender? 
Ah,  sweetheart,  and  friend,  you're  abandoned  to- 
night ! 
He  is   back  with  his  mother — good  angels   defend 

her! 
Through  all   the  dark  years   of  misfortune  and 

blight, 

And  we  know,  by  that  fluttering  smile  on  his  lips, 
That  his  soft  baby  hands — like  the  Babe's  of  the 

Manger — 

Is  nestling  again  in  her  bosom  from  danger, 
With  prayer  and  faith  in  its  warm  finger-tips. 

While  that  smile  on  his  lips  is  the  signet  of  slumber, 
The  soiled  plumes  of  manhood  are  brightly  up- 
borne 

By  the  blessed  child-angel,  and  cares  without  number 
Roll  back  from  the  spirit  that  lived  but  to  mourn. 
Let  us  kneel  in  the  presence  that  hushes  us  all; 
For  the  sceptre  of  deity,  never  discerning 
The  king  from  the  clown,  is  so  silently  turning, 
And  touching  our  hearts  with  the  gloom  of  the 

pall. 
There  is  shame  on  this  brow  where  the  death-damp 

has  rested, 

The  stray  silver  threads  in  the  clusters  of  brown 
Are   the   tokens   of   guilt — for   the  years   had   not 
crested 

302 


His  life  with  the  beautiful  symbol  and  crown; 

There  is  pathos  in  ev'ry  sad  wrinkle  that  lines 
On  this  face  the  wild  drama  of  hopeless  endeavor — 
A  pathos  so  deep,  when  we  think  that  "  forever  " 

Is  writ  where  the  night  dew  in  cold  sorrow  shines ! 

As  we  think  of  the  dawn  of  his  manhood  and  beauty, 

The  promise  that  bloomed  in  his  spirit  of  fire; 
And  we  look  on  him  now  when  the  clarion  of  duty 

Shall  nevermore  wake  him  to  chivalrous  ire! 

In  the  twilight  and  tangle  of  time's  crooked  ways, 
He  was  destined  to  stumble,  and  lose  the  rich  dower 
Of  youth  and  ambition,  and  hope  at  full  flower, 

And  drift  in  the  debris  that  taints  and  decays. 

For  alas,  do  we  know,  when  the  trumpet  was  calling, 

How  bravely  he  strove  to  stand  up  with  the  rest, 
That  a  shadow  of  doom  on  his  spirit  was  falling, 

The  shade  of  the  sinister  bar  on  his  crest! 

O,  so  many  are  borne  from  the  wreck  of  life's  field, 
As  the  fruit  of  some  wrong  that  the  ages  have 

hidden, 
The  taint  of  a  household — the  spectre  unbidden 

That  brings  the  slain  heir  on  his  ancestors'  shield! 
For  the  mothers  of  Sparta  are  saying  forever 

The  farewell  that  rings  like  the  clashing  of  steel; 
And  "  with  it,  or  on  it  "  are  words  that  will  quiver 

On  pale  lips,  and  will  till  our  bosoms  congeal. 

And  so  what  shall  we  do,  but  go  down  to  the  fray 
303 


In  the  lustre  of  youth  and  glory  of  striving, 
To  die  or  to  triumph,  where  fortune  is  driving 
With  thunder  and  smoke  through  the  pitiless  day  1 

WHAT  DEATH  MAY  BE 

"  I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme." 

— Keats 

Asleep  I  was,  and  softly  dreamed, 
As  shaded  lamplight  o'er  me  streamed, 

And  flowers,  white  and  calm, 
Wreathed  on  my  silent  bosom  seemed 

To  steep  my  soul  with  balm. 

I  heard  faint  whispers,  and  a  tear 
Dropped  on  my  forehead ; — I  could  hear 

A  sobbing,  far  away, 
And  only  those  sweet  flowers  were  near 

That  on  my  bosom  lay. 

I  woke  from  that  soft  sleep  of  wonder, 
Awoke  to  hear  the  grave  clods  thunder, 

And  knew  not  what  it  meant, 
So  calmly  had  I  slumbered  under 

A  fragrant  silken  tent. 

But  it  was  death!     Oh,  dark  and  deep 
They  made  the  chamber  of  that  sleep, 

And  lying  wakeful  there, 
I  heard  them  gently  round  and  heap 

The  mound  of  my  despair. 
304 


That  pallid,  awful  face  above! 

The  face  that  once  was  lit  with  love — 

O  heaven  that  it  should  be, 
That  never  one  should  come  to  move 

This  horrid  mask  from  me! 

Yet  miist  I  lie  here  shut  from  day 
And  bear  the  horror  of  decay 

A  noisome,  ling'ring  term — 
Lie  here  (as  angels  weep  and  pray !) 

And  listen  for  the  worm! 


A  VIEW  OF  DEATH 

O  Death,  our  familiar,  unbidden  guest, 

Whose  robe  is  silence,  whose  crown  is  rest; 

Whose  cities  with  mocking  marbles  gleam 

And  whose  banners   are   pale  as   the  weird   moon's 

beam ; 

When  Life  came  forth  from  his  rose-wreathed  gate, 
Thou  earnest,  his  shadow  and  conquering  mate; 
And  yet,  with  thy  kingdom  on  land  and  sea, 
Since  the  primaeval  curse  left  us  frail  but  free, 
Ah,  what,  after  all,  do  we  know  of  thee? 

Alas,  it  is  this,  only  this,  we  know: 
That  the  musical  fountain  has  ceased  to  flow, 
And  never  again  will  its  crimson  stream 
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Flush  the  heart  that  is  thrilled  with  Life's  sweet 

dream ; 

That  the  fane  is  deserted  where  young  Hope  knelt, 
That  the  temple  is  dark  where  Affection  dwelt, 
And  that  fondly  and  vainly  and  ever  with  dread 
We  moan,  as  we  murmur  adieus  to  the  dead. 

To  us,  whatever  the  Psalmist  saith, 

The  cold,  still  form  is  our  view  of  death. 

We  only  know  that  rest  and  night 

Have  come  to  a  child  of  love  and  light, 

That  the  magic  windows  the  soul  looked  through 

Are  kissed  and  sealed  with  a  Stygian  dew — 

That  the  frosted  lips  neither  sigh  nor  smile — 

But  where  have  they  gone — our  beloved  erstwhile? 

Can  the  preacher  tell  us,  in  phrase  serene? 
Hath  he  looked  behind  that  heavy  screen? 
We  think,  we  know,  we  feel  and  see, 
But  who  hath  fathomed  eternity? 
The  finite  mind  to  the  issue  brought, 
On  the  cloudy  verge  of  that  wrecking  thought 
Reels  back  in  terror,  from  the  gulf  profound 
Of  space  and  duration  it  cannot  sound. 

Beyond  the  shimmer  of  earth-seen  stars 
Nowhere  are  there  bounding  walls  or  bars, 
But  a  sea  of  space  that  soundless  runs 
Gold-misted  with  infinite  stars  and  suns; 
The  thought  is  madness,  the  madness  of  dreams, 
Where,  astray  amid  haunted  shores  and  streams, 

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The  mind  goes  jangling,  free  and  wild, 
By  many  a  horror  strange  beguiled. 

Ah  yes,  we  may  stand  and  listen  and  think 
By  that  shoreless  sea,  on  its  crumbling  brink, 
While  its  spray  is  chilling  our  trembling  feet, 
And  believe  that  our  loved  ones  we  shall  meet 
Beyond,  where  silvery  mists  are  curled 
Round  the  gleaming  shores  of  a  better  world; 
But  there  comes  no  answer,  yes  or  no, 
From  the  vast  realm  whither  the  dead  must  go, 
Though  we  plead  through  tears  of  helpless  woe. 

In  the  earthly  sense  we  comprehend 
That  death,  after  all,  is  life's  best  friend — 
Its  food  and  renewal  through  flights  of  years, 
When  the  beauty  of  youth  ever  reappears. 
The  body  that  lay  all  white  and  cold, 
And  tenderly  laid  in  a  cool  brown  mould. 
Will  return  to  existence  as  still  Time  flows, 
And  be  drifted  by  every  wind  that  blows; 
Its  atoms,  released  by  Death's  decree, 
Will  flush  in  the  rose  and  toil  with  the  bee, 
And  woven  in  diverse  forms  be  found, 

While  fate  weaves  fate  in  a  ceaseless  round. 

'  * 

But  what  of  the  spirit,  the  life  within, 
After  its  battles  with  pain  and  sin? 
Does  the  spirit  return  unidentified 
To  the  primaeval  source,  the  eternal  tide 

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Of  spirit  life  that  must  traverse 

The  dusky  deeps  of  the  universe, — 

And  like  the  red  blood  in  our  veins 

Keep  life  still  thrilling  with  greater  gains — 

Still  building  and  leaving  and  building  anew 

Through  infinite  ages  and  changes  too? 

If  the  soul  be  deathless,  and  if  it  be 

A  child  of  the  realm  of  eternity, 

Its  remembrance  of  earth  cannot  be  all 

And  sufficient  to  hold  it  forever  in  thrall, 

But  a  dim  and  vanishing  episode 

To  a  traveller  on  a  stormy  road. 

And  so,  my  endeared  ones,  dead  and  gone, 
As  the  shadows  deepen  and  life  grows  lone, 
I  think  of  thee  still,  and  more  and  more 
Look  forward  and  question  the  farther  shore. 
But  I  see  no  gleam  of  the  beckoning  hand, 
No  sweet  voice  calls  me  from  amaranth  land 
Save  the  faint  fond  dreams  we  mortals  weave 
To  brighten  the  gloom  of  hearts  that  grieve; 
And  I  moan  in  anguish  with  head  bowed  low, 
"  I  do  not  know,  O,  I  do  not  know ;  " 
Yet  ever  I  feel  it  is  well  with  thee 
In  Oblivion's  shroud,  by  the  crystal  sea, 
Or  beginning  another  life  afar, 
A  life  that  will  grow  from  star  to  star, 
While  I,  still  held  in  a  lower  sphere, 
Life's  manifold  tasks  accomplished  here, 
Will  trust  the  unknown,  and  the  ebbing  tide, 
To  lead  me  at  last  where  my  loved  abide. 

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